


THE MONSTER

by Magalona



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Beware mentions of past abuse, Conflictual Relationship, Holmes brothers being bratty and lost, I love a bullied Mycroft, Mycroft has a hair fetish..., Post HLW, Promise, With an happy ending, lots of angsty angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-24
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-04-23 05:40:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 36
Words: 39,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4865141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magalona/pseuds/Magalona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set seconds after Moriarty's coming back from the dead. There's a new pawn on the chess board, making life hard for Sherlock first, then Mycroft. Mostly Mycroft...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there ! This is my first unbeta'ed long fiction. It is a story that have been on my mind for a very long time. Hope you'll enjoy it ! I'll try updating as regurlarly as I can.

THE MONSTER

 

PROLOGUE

 

Reminiscing

 

“ 'Don't be smart, Sherlock, I'm the smart one '!   
\- I AM the smart one.  
\- I used to think I was an idiot...  
\- Both of us thought you were an idiot, sherlock. We had nothing else to go on until we met other children.  
\- Oh yes, that was a mistake...  
\- Ghastly. What were they thinking of ?   
\- Probably something about trying to make friends.  
\- Oh, yes. FRIENDS ! Of course, you go in for that sort of things, now.  
\- And you don't ? Ever ?   
\- If you seem slow to me, Sherlock, can you imagine what real people are like ? I'm living in a world of goldfish...  
\- Yes, but I've been away for two years...  
\- So ?   
\- Oh, I don't know. I thought you might have found yourself a … goldfish.   
\- Change the subject ! Now ! 

 

********

 

Extract from DR. Watson's blog archive, unsent entry. 

Both of them are gone, without a trace, of course. 

I had hoped for another ending. Maybe something less brutal. Happier. It doesn't seem very bright right now. Or maybe it is just the way things look on the outside. They left a terrible mess after them for their siblings to sort out by themselves. A sort of revenge, perhaps. A bitter “Serve you both right !” At least, from Mycroft's part, assuredly. Maybe that makes them satisfied wherever they are... Leaving free for a a little time while the others have to clean behind. I saw his beautiful assistant, the haughty lady who calls herself Anthea, typing like a madwoman on her phone with obvious murderous thoughts about her employer, I am sure of that. That's the kind of petty retribution he likes but I don't think it is the same for HER. 

Little-romantic-me still yearns for “Happily ever after” but I'm not sure it would suit the G-man, nor his companion. Their relationship has been complicated since the start. Yet, I don't think none of them would have liked a peaceful domestic situation with a dog and little ones all around Mycroft's over-sized mansion. If Mycroft, Sherlock, Mary and I share something, it is the adrenaline addiction. The total and absolute incapacity to live a so-called normal life. None of us would survive in a boring day-to-day dullness. We would all go cuckoo at the end of one week. Seems pathetic to you ? Maybe. Sherlock is my best mate and I'm the only human being that can stomach him (and vice-versa). Mary is my love and we have a child (and still a lot to discuss thoroughly as I still don't trust her completely...). And Mycroft is... Mycroft. Never liked the old bugger but I can't help now seeing him as a hopelessly, gentlemanly, authentic romantic. 

Yes, you read me right... That very Mycroft, the human ice-cube and gigantic pain in the arse Sherlock and I have dragged around our necks like a giant albatross, finally came out as the most romantic man I ever met. Not even Sherlock can reach his level. He beats us all in the end. 

Allow me to explain all this gibberish. First I need to tell you the one amazing thing that keeps coming into my mind and sometimes obsesses me. I have to admit it. Only this image remains vivid in bright colors. An image I feel I have stolen from those two, a private moment I have no right to see or use. A moment I try to forget but cannot help remembering. For, strangely, it is an image of beauty even if its under-meanings are dark.   
Mycroft's pale hand with its almost invisible freckles, reaching towards dark, luscious brown curls, caressing them shyly as if it was taming some beautiful silky snakes... Mycroft's fingers twirling themselves onto the shiny threads, as if analyzing their feel and texture, almost savoring them. The contrast between the paleness of the hand and the caramel-like color of the hair is a bit brutal. Then, Mycroft possessively pulls the curls, forcing their owner's head to rise for a brutal kiss. Mycroft's other arm slides its way around a supple waist and, as he breaks the kiss, he looks at her, calm and detached as ever, on the surface. The only gleam of brutal feelings comes back to his eyes when two arms settle around his neck, as firm as a woman's necklace or chains.


	2. CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER ONE

 

I cannot describe how relieved I was when I saw the plane coming down and Sherlock's dark figure stepping out of it. Deep inside I know that I owe it to Moriarty if I was able to see him again. I am also aware that, if not for the crazy asshole, Sherlock would have never come back home alive. I cannot say why, but I just know it. And maybe that also saved that bastard Mycroft's life, by the way. I would have strangled him if Sherlock had died in Serbia without any help from his brother's part. 

Except that back in Baker Street, we were also back to square one, with multiple questions and no answers. And a baby on the way, but not yet at that point of the story. 

We had first to calm down Mrs. Hudson who had a terrible scare, seeing the mad dog on TV. She had almost broken the vacuum cleaner and spilled the dust all over the room. So much for cleaning. Then Sherlock tried to collect his thoughts.   
“ So... Not dead ?” That was a lame start, even from me. But Sherlock was already on the couch, in his old satin blue dressing gown, his hands joined behind his chin, eyes closed, as if praying. A familiar posture that sometimes soothed me and sometimes made me feel outed and got me angry. But right now, I was just happy to see him like that again.   
“Don't be ridiculous, John. He IS dead. I saw it with my own eyes, we had the body and there was an autopsy. Nobody survives from having the back of his head exploded by a bullet.”   
“So... ?”   
“Not sure. Yet.” And he went back to his meditation without any further comment.   
I looked to Mary who was sitting in my old armchair, while Mrs. Hudson was on Sherlock's, sipping tea, and sarcastically smiled to her. Mrs. Hudson answered with a more indulgent expression, like a schoolteacher fondly considering two little brats. I slapped my hands together and went back to Sherlock. “So, what's the plan ?”   
Sherlock sighed. “What do you expect me to do, John ? He send us a message but it could have been made while he was still alive. So it is no proof whatsoever of him being alive, or dead, or anything. Mycroft already tracked it down but it came out with nothing. A very intelligent hacking sufficed to spread that viral video and managed to hide its origins. Have you realized that we cannot even be sure that Moriarty IS the author of this prank ? It could be a farce destined to play with our nerves by someone who wants to use his reputation. Haven't you noticed that it wasn't even a real video ? It was a sort of gif, a picture with its mouth grossly animated. The voice was deformed and I am not even sure it was his. So, I am asking again, what can I do ? ”   
That was not nice to hear but, indeed, he was right. “ But, no one does something that big without a purpose ?” Sherlock growled. “Indeed. But there is no real message in it. More like 'Pick-a-boo, I see you' than anything else. Childish.” Saying that, Sherlock unconsciously made a grimace that indeed made HIM childish. Mary squirmed in the chair, trying not to laugh. I knew that little Morstan-Watson Junior girl was up and perky lately. Her mother was getting more and more uncomfortable by the day. It was about to happen anytime soon and Mary and I were still amazed that our lives were about to change forever. Again. 

Sherlock jumped out of the sofa in the brutal way he was used to. “Well, no point in dwelling here, waiting for our mysterious man to taunt us any further...” He started typing on his phone. “ Let's see if Lestrade got something for us to spend time.”   
I sighed. Trust Sherlock not to change, ever. Something bad was hanging over our heads, he had just escaped a probably certain death and what was he thinking about ? Another case... Dearie me. I heard Mary giggle. Funny, indeed.   
“Uh, oh” Sherlock kept rolling his phone screen. “ Seems Lestrade had something for us ten minutes ago. I didn't hear the text.” He threw his dressing gown on the floor, grabbed his vest, coat and scarf in one elegant movement. This fluidity of his is something I couldn't grasp, ever. “What. Now ?” Needless to say, I was astonished by the man's gall. For goodness's sakes, didn't we have more pressing matters to resolve ?! “Yes, John. Now. We are already late.” 

I stood flabbergasted although many years with working with Sherlock Holmes should have vaccinated me about those brutal changes of decisions. And why do I always comply is another thing I would very much like to understand. Yet, the-Husband-and-Father side of me turned around to see what Mary would say about me leaving like that to follow the crazy boffin, AGAIN. But Mary became Sherlock's partner in crime against me a long time ago. She just smiled sweetly. “Go. You'll tell me later.” I grinned but not in a joyous way. A rather awkward one. I knew the problem was not the fact that I was leaving her. What made her sad was that her too heavy belly made it difficult for her to follow us. For an independent action woman like Mary, that was very hard to live, even if it was her decision. Another problem we would have to discuss. Dear god... As if we didn't have enough on our plates...

*********

One cab later, we arrived at the clinic were the murder was committed. Or so we thought...

There was the whole armada behind the premises, near the bins. We spotted Lestrade and (unfortunately) Little-Miss-Sunshine, Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan. She was always scoffing at us. Not openly aggressive to me, but she used to dislike Sherlock for reasons I didn't know at that time. She called him “freak” behind his back and to his face. At least, she was being honest even if she was indeed annoying. And partly thanks to her and her dear friend, the former forensic scientist Anderson, we had to fight against the whole world during the events prior to Sherlock's fake suicide. Since that time, I never forgave her, nor Anderson. Lestrade did, or so I think, but only because he had to work with them... Well, at least with Donovan. Anyway, that's not the point. The first thing I noticed was that, although she was on a crime scene, she looked strangely happy and relaxed. THAT was weird. I think Sherlock saw it too and an alarm had immediately rung in his mind palace. In retrospect, I believe it was the beginning of our troubles, Donovan's good humor. Ironical, don't you think ? Then I remarked that Lestrade seemed also very jolly. Now, THAT was creepy. 

If Donovan was anything good, she was indeed a true yarder, a professional. She would never have let herself go easy while working and neither would have Lestrade, her superior. As for Lestrade, as much as Sherlock made him look like a fool sometimes, he was also a good cop and a good Detective Inspector. He too would never slack off. But here they were, smiling and joking as if they were in their usual pub, a pint in hand, not in front of someone's death. When we joined them, I could tell Sherlock and I were a little surprised to say the least.   
“Hey there, mates ! Where you been ?” Greg didn't even try to hide his smile. I was starting to wonder if he was tipsy or something. Sally gave a tiny smirk.   
“Didn't hear my cell”, mumbled Sherlock “What do we have ?”   
Greg gave us his largest grin. Yup, he was surely drunk. “This one's a laugh.” He pointed one of the bins where technicians were working on something I couldn't see at first. Then I had a shock. That horror was glittering, neatly exposed on the lid like an abstract painting from Salvador Dali. Grotesque, morbid and scary. A male foot. In a monstrous shiny pink stiletto with ridiculously high heels and toenails freshly painted in rich red. It was cut just above the ankle, in a neat, gruesome way. No blood. 

“Ain't that the trick or wha' ?” Definitely drunk. Sherlock sighed. “I miss the funny side of this.” Greg laughed and Donovan discreetly giggled. Okay, if not drunk, were they high ? Dear god. I had enough with Sherlock's 'little problem'.   
“That's it !” said Lestrade, still laughing, then he lowered. “Well, no, it's not funny at all. But, sorry, we're a bit overexcited down there. Since the weird Moriarty alert, we've been drowned in calls. Then this crazy thing was reported and we had to bring the whole team around because it scared the hell out of witnesses, of course. We thought it was HIM. That's when I send you a text. But while you took your sweet time answering...” I wanted to scream at Greg that, indeed, Sherlock 'took his sweet time answering' considering he was almost send to the scaffold and we still had a psychopath in the open. “She told us it was the damn med students doing their stupid fresher initiation ritual !” Greg laughed out loud, followed by Donovan. “It's the foot of a corpse they took from the morgue ! Added with personal items !” 

Sherlock grimaced. “ And I am being the child, here ?” He was obviously simmering. “ So, what do you expect of me ? Find the perpetrators ?” Greg calmed down and went back to his usual business persona. “Sorry, sorry. It's just that with the weirdo coming back from the dead, everything seems totally absurd today.” He wiped his eyes. “You won't have to bother yourself. They'll be found soon enough. I'm sorry, again, but she is indeed fast ! I couldn't believe it ! We knew she was good and she is at least almost as good as you !”   
Now, we were lost because we had absolutely no idea of what the hell he was blabbering about. “ 'She' ? Who's 'she' ?” Sherlock was losing patience and he was about to burst because, right now, Donovan's grin was becoming even more insolent than before. Like a cat in front of a juicy mouse. Then Greg stopped in his tracks, realizing he was not making any sense. “ Oh, gosh. Sorry again. You don't know about the new arrival.” Sherlock humphed “So, you've got another subordinate and she's got beginner luck. So what ?” Greg smirked again “You must see her. She's quite extraordinary. Guessed everything at first look, just like you. You two could make a great team.” Sally gave an indignant laugh. Then Greg turned around and looked everywhere as if he had lost something. “The hell ?” he said. Sally also whirled, also puzzled. “Where is she ? She was just behind !” She called out. “Hannah ? Hannah !” 

They looked around, in vain. Greg was a little embarrassed. He passed his hand through his hair. “Looks like she's gone...” Sherlock didn't seemed impressed, rather bored out of his wits and wanting to leave. “Who is this newcomer ?” I was asking this more to be polite than out of real interest. “A new Detective Sergeant from Oxford. Hannah Ronder. She is rather peculiar. You'll like her Sherlock.” Sally gave another nasty smile. She was starting to get on my nerves with the attitude. “Yup, she is a bit out of bounds. But she's more reliable than you are, freak. Besides, SHE's yard.” I would have gladly throttled her. I understood her resentment but she was no help at all. Sherlock started to make his way to the exit. He was at his limit and I was also fed up with them all to say the least. “Well, good for her.” Sherlock declared. “But it is not of any importance to me.”

Oh, lord. How wrong that first comment was. So very, very wrong...

********

She watched them leaving. She had to control the need to throw up. Or to run amok, a knife in hand. She knew who they were, who HE was. She just had the time to hide in the back alley. She couldn't be seen. Not right now. She was nauseous, sick and angry BIG time. She didn't know that seeing him could upset her that much, but on the other hand, what was she expecting ? Release ? Closure ? Some sort of effin' spiritual enlightenment ?   
She felt stupid, full of hatred. And she knew that was wrong. But she couldn't help it. Looking at him, so smug, so sure of himself, so full of shit. She dreamed of pulling the two ends of that annoying scarf he was playing with and pull. Hard. Until the sassy tongue turned blue and mute, until the irritating face was a bloating purple mess. Until her beating heart finally burst, spilling its bile and venom, freeing her from life and the daily horror she was dealing with. 

All because of them, because of the Holmes Boys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading ! Slow built action but coming soon !


	3. Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO

The Diogenes's club. Eleven o'clock. A muffled silence reigned in the office, only lightly disturbed by Mycroft's occasional typing or rustling through a file's sheets. A cup of tea was gently cooling on the tray. Mycroft's favorite atmosphere. No nagging mother, no boring subordinate, no stupidly arrogant little brother, maybe sometimes Andrea's beautiful face popping through the door for one thing or the other but always discreet. Mycroft knew that only a chosen few could really appreciate that kind of luxury. Silence. Away from the madding crowd. Perfection. 

Well, maybe life could be a little dull without some kind of action. But Mycroft was not an outside agent, an on-the-field kind of worker. The office and the club suited him perfectly, so did his beautiful isolated mansion, his fortress of solitude, his 'bratty-brother-free' domain. Nonetheless, the pleasure of not having any disturbance at all was sometimes available and sometimes a far-away dream.   
He was still angry and stressed about Sherlock. The whole affair almost destroyed them all. He had already sorted things out of course, Moriarty or not. Once Sherlock would arrive in Serbia, Mycroft would have launched a rescue plan to get him out. He would have saved his brother but without any possibility of return this time. Sherlock would have been in exile for the rest of his life. Thank god for the consulting criminal, living or dead. Mycroft would have never thought in a million years that, one day, he would say that phrase, even just to himself.   
Sherlock was back and safe. For now. Mycroft felt an unusual chill while thinking about his little brother. He recently had a nightmare about Sherlock, a gun in his hand, covered in blood from head to toes, smiling at him like a maniac, Magnussen's corpse at his feet. 

Nothing would be the same. Ever. Sherlock had crossed the invisible line. He was now even more unpredictable than before. An acknowledged murderer. Worst option ever for a particular mind like Sherlock's. Pirate, philosopher, drug-addict, detective and now, assassin. Lord... Could he not choose something simpler ? Bee-keeper in the country for example, or anything that's far away as possible from trouble ? Maybe not bee-keeper. He could do lethal experiments with bees like creating a new virus or chemical weapons, or... Dear god !  
But all of this was just useless whining. They were more pressing matters right now and peace and quiet would be far away for a loooong time. Mycroft sighed and picked up his tea cup. At the same time, Andrea came without knocking, looking agitated. That was not a good sign. One of the reasons Mycroft picked her among many candidates was not because of her beauty but because she was a master of self-control, even in the worst situations. That was not her only talent but right now, it wasn't the issue for Mycroft.   
“Sir ?” She was pale but her hand remained steady. “I think you'd want to have a look at the CCCTV records from Baker street. One hour ago, South and west.” Mycroft looked at her briefly, only to register that her heart level had increased and that she was genuinely worried. Andrea was never worried. This wasn't good at all. He typed quickly and obtained the screens from his brother's street on the computer. There were many cameras in and out of Sherlock's. The brat used to play cat-and-mouse with Mycroft and sometimes removed all of the cams he could find or sabotaged them. Once, he glued on the lent the picture of magnificent male behind, thinking it was funny, surely... Damn upstart. 

At first, there was nothing suspect at Baker street. He saw Sherlock and John getting out of the cab and inside 221B. Even with his back turned to the camera, Sherlock's irritation was crystal clear as was John's nervousness. Mycroft easily deduced that Sherlock's new case (so soon ? His brother's resilience was indeed a wonder) with the Yard didn't go smoothly. When they closed the door and the cab went away, there still wasn't any sign that could be considered remotely interesting.   
“Right there, sir, the other cab on the left.” She pointed at the screen. A cab entered the picture on the pavement in front of 221B and left its customer. A slim female figure wearing a beige coat and curly long brown hair. For a second, Mycroft was puzzled for he thought it was Andrea but those hair were longer and that built slightly larger. What was more intriguing is that the figure remained standing upright, looking directly at the door of 221B, unmoving for several minutes. The body language was also loud, clear and very preoccupying. Whoever she was, she was tensed, in a controlled rage, her arms close to her body, her fists clenched, as if she was getting ready to attack the occupants of 221B Baker Street. Hostile, discreetly but still. She remained for a few minutes and then went on her way. Not many traces of her had been found, according to Andrea. That one was smart enough to leave a few blurry pictures and avoid most of the CCTV, but she was daring enough to do it anyway. Or confused by her emotions. A deadly mixture, whatever her motives were, once again, whoever she was...

“Have you identified this person ?” Mycroft asked, Andrea sighed. “It was difficult to have a clear picture. She is a clever one. I am sure she had prepared this little tour. Which convinced me that, one, she knows about us and, two, she has something to hide... Yet, we managed to get a view. Not much, but it's a start.” She clicked and obtained a still picture. “As you can see, there is a reason why she wants to remain unseen.”   
Mycroft had a shock. Indeed. THAT was a face you remembered. “Yes, with this, she can be easily tracked down.” Andrea simply smiled and laid down a brand new file. Mycroft smirked. Good girl. “Here it is. But there is something you need to consider before consulting it.” She pointed at the woman's face. “I am not sure all of these informations are correct. I remarked something peculiar.” She covered a part of the picture with her hand. “Just like this, doesn't she remind you of someone ?”  
Mycroft observed the image but noticed nothing at first sight. Then he took a closer look and he felt like his heart skipped a beat. It was impossible. It had to be. Or else...  
Things might be a little bit more complicated then he thought. Just what Sherlock and he needed. Great.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll try to update every Thursday. For those who don't know, Anthea's real name is Andrea. It's in the script. Now that I know it, I cannot bring myself to call her Anthea in my stories...


	4. CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER THREE

When was that ? Oh, yea, one week before the Moriarty alert. We learned from the chief there was a new promoted Yarder to come. A girl. I remember that the other DI.s were a bit jealous of me, that me being with Donovan and another hottie, I was starting a harem of my own. Luckily, Sally wasn't here to hear that, 'cause she would have had their balls, for sure. Maybe they knew it, that's why they bravely made that comment behind her back. Wankers... We still have antediluvian dumb asses for whom a woman's place is in the kitchen. Even I, with my divorce history, can understand that women may want a real life in the outside. Anyway, having two female sergeants isn't so bad. At that moment I only hoped that everyone would get along well.   
Until her name came out. Hannah Louise Ronder. From Oxford. 

Sally and I never heard about her, so we didn't panicked much. But all around us, all the colleagues blanched hearing her name. And, man, did they talk about her...   
She had an awful reputation. But I suspected them to worsen it so they could sound interesting. Usually I hate the gossiping between the Yarders. We're supposed to be a team not a sorry bunch of bored housewives who spend the day spying on the neighbors. Anyway. As I didn't pay much attention to the blah-blah-blah, I more or less understood that she was a sort of rebel with ideas of her own and a bad attitude. She apparently reported an internal case of sexual harassment the female agents were enduring from their own superiors in Oxford. I strongly suspect THAT was why very few of the male part of the Yard liked her. Moreover she had results, more than most of the other sergeants, male or female and that she had a “weird” appearance which gave her an ugly nickname I refuse to write down here. John may do it if he likes, but I won't. All in all, she strongly reminded me of someone I was used to deal with. Maybe with a little more principles and ideals. That was fine by me. I thought no one could be harder to work with than Sherlock Holmes. When I said that, Sally sighed. She was more worried than I was. 

Indeed, she had reasons to be. But how could I have known ? And, had we known, what could we have done about it, anyway ? 

So, here we were, waiting for the new arrival. In the meantime, we had difficulties to finish our cases, mostly because Sherlock was nowhere to be found. It wasn't until much later that I knew he was in trouble deep at that time. But, whatever. Sally and I were in my office, about to tear up our hairs when there was a knocking and in came a young lady the likes I never saw. 

First impressions sometimes set the pace for future relationships, they say. Hope it is wrong because that was a very bad one. Because, seeing her for the first time, Sally and I acted as very rude fools, gawking at her, wide-eyed and open-mouthed like imbeciles, as if she was an alien or a ... Retrospectively, I think she was used to such impoliteness and staring. She simply smiled in a resigned way.   
“Excuse-me, is this DI Lestrade's office ?” Her voice was smooth but a little rusty. Very ladylike, indeed. That was a little contrasting with her appearance. We found it very hard to pull ourselves together. I stuttered “Huh, yeah, how may I help you ?” She put her hand forward “I'm Detective Sergeant Hannah Ronder, sir. Please to meet you.” I took her hand a bit hesitantly because I was still a little shocked. I was ashamed of it. That was how we met Hannah. 

Once we got used to her, things went quite easily. She was funny and very mild-mannered. I liked working with her. She was less saucy than Donovan, more balanced than my poor Anderson and, indeed, more amiable than Sherlock. In the few days we've been with her, before Sherlock's return from God knows where, she managed to help us with the big stuff in a way that startled me. A way that was quite similar to Sherlock. One look at the body and she could see invisible evidence and deduce from it. It was not exactly the same because she was indeed a tiny slower than Sherlock and sometimes made mistakes, but very few. Indeed, she could have sort of replaced him. I didn't know then if it was a good thing or not... I still don't, actually.   
But I couldn't let my trap shut. And one day when she managed to discover the corpse's identity thanks to his shirt and the dirt on his shoes, I opened it, I couldn't resist. She was too much like Sherlock.  
“Gee, and, all of that from the mud ?” I had a nervous laugh coming out. Sally shot me the warning look. She and Hannah had become good friends and I knew that the “Freak”, as she called Sherlock, was a taboo subject for her lately. “Yes sir, but this is not mud but a special compost for hydrangeas. I can see it from the texture. Actually, there is a flower contest in the nearby greenhouses and I wouldn't be surprised if the victim would be one of the attendants. We need to check yesterday's missing persons' list...”  
She was calmly enumerating her remarks in that soft, lightly husky voice. And I just burst out nervously, surprising both Hannah and Donovan.   
“My god, ain't she the ticket !? She is just like Sherlock !” Sally made a quick gesture with her right hand to her throat in a clear 'cut-it-off !', but I went on and on. “He is not going to like it. Being pipped at the post by a cop !”   
Hannah rose from her examination and I should have seen that, hearing Sherlock's name, she went tense in seconds. “Sherlock ? Sherlock Holmes ?” I didn't hear her voice trembling on the edge. Sally did. “Isn't he that consultant you used to work with ? Mycroft Holmes' younger brother ?” She wasn't looking at me in the eyes when she said that, I noticed that. She pretended focusing on peeling of her plastic gloves from her hands.  
Sally glanced at her, astonished by her last question. “Wait, you mean there's a Freak n°2 out there ? Awesome...” She said bitterly. I remained still. I never talked about M-y-c-r-o-f-t H-o-l-m-e-s. No one knew my connection to him and no one would. I was internally cursing my blasted tongue. 

Yet Hannah went very pale and her lips were badly pursing as if controlling a bout of nausea. “Yeah,” I said. “He is. You'd like him. I think you two have a lot in common.”   
Better for me to be hit on the head than saying that. But as I've told you, there are moments I can't control my effin' tongue (and most of the times I can, I assure you). That was one of these moments. Hannah rose from the corpse, not looking at anyone but with an emotionless expression. “Why, I am sure I would.” She said (with a perfectly neutral tone of voice) and she slapped her gloves on the car as if she was whipping someone.


	5. CHAPTER FOUR

Sherlock went berserk in less than one week. I did too, in a way, but for different causes. 

The pattern repeated itself thrice but that was enough to drive Sherlock mad (and to re-awake his cigarette cravings). Greg texted him, we ran to the crime scene just to find an embarrassed Lestrade and a sarcastic Donovan to tell us the mysterious Ronder woman had already solved it. AND, that she had disappeared into thin air the moment we showed ourselves. We looked like fools, coming and going with Greg's useless apologies on one hand, and Donovan's smart-ass comments on the other. Sherlock is not a violent man. I swear to god he is not, even with the fact that he... Anyway. I had to grab his arm VERY hard the second time we were dismissed so as to prevent him from hitting Donovan after one of her elegant and constructive remarks. It was a close call and Sherlock was seriously worrying me. 

Problem was, we were getting nowhere, whether in the daily life and the usual cases (stolen by the faceless Ronder Sergeant), or concerning the Moriarty business. After the viral video, there was no other taunting spam. Nothing to turn to, nothing to start with. It had happened, got us all upside down and simply vanished without any kind of explanation or any further action. I was starting to think it WAS a prank after all. But still... Everywhere, nothing but dead ends. So frustration and nervousness ensued. Not to mention that Mary and I were on a stand-by situation on our own. We couldn't move out of the house much, as we didn't want to miss the contractions. Waiting for that baby was exhausting.   
So, Sherlock had no luck with Moriarty yet. What do you think he decided to do ? In a logical, rational way ? 

He decided to investigate the woman he called “that annoying Ronder person.”   
Yup.   
No comment. 

While I was mentally slapping my face in desperation after he dropped that particular decision to me, he started checking for her background. He discovered some casual things like the woman's full name, place of birth, studies, records and all. She hadn't left Oxford until now and the reason for her departure made her look rather nice and straightforward to me. Of course, Sherlock dismissed it with a wave of his hand. Once again, he was displaying a total absence of human empathy. Or faking indifference. With Sherlock, it was hard to tell.   
Hannah Ronder unearthed a bad internal case of sexual harassment within the Yard at Oxford. Young female subordinates' life made a living hell by high-ranked old perverts. Some of these superior heads had to fall. Sadly, the one who helped those girls and brought justice to the Yard was badly seen afterwards. Typical. Sherlock dug some really rude comments on various private chats among male Yarders. Sexism was strong and alive.   
They called her various names and threatened her of many things in a very brave, anonymous manner. They went on and on about her appearance, how ugly and repulsive she was, how rude and unladylike she was and worse (those people were in dire need of a mirror...). Most of the time, they ranted on the way she was no woman at all, that she was a monster... As if those poor, poor whining little boys crying for their wounded virility (and for their mommies) were MEN...

I was starting to be sympathetic towards Sergeant Ronder. She seemed clever and honest. She dared to take risks to do what should be considered as good. Better to have her on our side than to antagonize her out of misplaced pride. That's what I told Sherlock only to be responded by a grunt. 

Yet, Sherlock was intrigued by something. There was no photo of the Sergeant whatsoever. She seemed to avoid being seen and people were evasive about her physical appearance. Except for her detractors who went on and on about how “ugly” she was, that she gave them “the creep” (so manly...) but nothing precise about why she should be so scary. Furthermore, we were surprised not to found any pictures of her. That was really weird. Now, I can think that if we had found only one, many disagreements could have been prevented. But no use crying over spilled milk, I guess...

That was accessory. Sherlock was focused on another problem and it was the reason why he was minding the mysterious sergeant so much.   
“I am sure that even if she had a very unsettling physical defect, that would be no reason not to see ME. She is deliberately RUNNING from ME, John.”  
I sighed. Here went the megalomaniac side of Sherlock.   
“Sherlock, the sun goes around the earth but the world is certainly not revolving around YOU.” Sherlock gave me a scorning look.   
“You see.” he scoffed “You don't observe, the usual. I am not being the center of the world. I am being logical and the evidence are totally screaming. She can't prevent Lestrade, her superior, to call me, so when I arrive, she finds ways to disappear. But WHY ? I don't even know her ! What could I do that would be a threat to her ?”   
I sighed again. The answer was so obvious but sometimes Sherlock missed the simpler things.   
“Because the minute you'll see her, you'll start deducing her and spill her private life and secrets to everyone present. Because you cannot keep your mouth shut when decency commands it. Because she may have things she doesn't want Lestrade or Donovan or anyone to know and you will see those things, whatever they may be, and tell them around. That's all, Sherlock. You're incapable of any form of discretion.”  
Sherlock looked at me as if he was seeing me for the first time and I had a dreadful feeling that, instead of trying to make Sherlock see the error of his ways like a pompous teacher, I had just launched a disaster like the bloody fool I was.   
“John, sometimes you ARE clever !” Why, thank you, you twat, I thought. “ She IS hiding something. And I am going to find out what.”   
And a medal to Doctor “smart-ass” Watson, I thought piteously. 

Sherlock heard through the grapevine (or rather through his hobo network) that Greg, Donovan and the Ronder woman were on a rather simple case that didn't require Sherlock's immediate presence near Charing Cross. So off we went. We left the cab some blocks away not to be remarked. We managed to pass the police lines I don't remember how. Sometimes, crossing every kind of line with Sherlock could be extraordinary easy.   
Inside the premises it was hard to hide from the police officers and technicians all around. We ended stuck in the cellar beside a staircase, waiting for an opening. I was internally fuming in silence when Sherlock grabbed my arm to get my attention. Upstairs I heard familiar voices. 

“Still, he is a jerk. Can't stand the way he gets into the job.”  
Sweet, sweet Donovan. Again, raving and ranting about Sherlock. We couldn't see anything, we could only hear footsteps. I knew Sherlock was counting them. He gestured four fingers to indicate they were four people going down.   
“Sally,” an unknown lightly rusty voice said “You're just angry with him because he warned you about your so-called 'fiancé' at the time. Although he didn't break the news in a gentle manner...” A woman speaking, undoubtedly, but not someone we knew. She sounded tired, as if she had said that kind of line many times.   
“Wha' ?” That was Greg. “What fiancé ? What are you talking about ?” I heard a grunt coming from Donovan. “Thanks a lot, Hannah...” she growled. “You're welcome.” chuckled softly the unknown voice. 'Hannah' ! So that was the mysterious sergeant. They were in mid-way through the stairs and we still couldn't see anyone.   
“Freak told me I was engaged to a wife-beater who was still married and had deserted woman and child. I didn't believe him.” I gave an astonished look at Sherlock who turned away, a little embarrassed, apparently. So that was the reason they couldn't get along. “And you told him to go to hell.” Pursued Hannah Ronder's voice.“ And then you checked the records, discovered the other wedding, and invited the crook to kindly move out.” Sally grunted again. “You never told us !” That was Anderson's nasal tone. What the hell was he doing here ? Hadn't he resigned from the forensics ?   
“Why, Sherlock all over. Gentleness and subtlety incarnate.” I heard Greg sigh. Sherlock grimaced. Then the four of them appeared in our sight as they left the stairs. They all had their back on us. Greg's large shoulders and Anderson's smaller silhouette were hiding us the women but I perceived a rather elegant form on Anderson's right. Very long golden brown hair who weren't Donovan's. They went on but I still heard the woman's voice. “Well, you can't feed a wolf with vegetables, can you ? That's what the Holmes Boys are. Wolves.” 

Did I hear a hint of … resentment in her voice ? I couldn't catch Donovan's bitter answer for they went on their way. I heard Anderson and Lestrade's laughter and then nothing. We got out of our cellar and I told Sherlock I had enough. We started our way back home and then I noticed that Sherlock was really quiet. He was looking into nothing and muttering quickly to himself, the way he did sometimes when a detail was on his mind.   
“What is it ?” I asked. He stopped, going back from the limbos to the living. “Haven't you noticed ?” he demanded dreamily. “What ?” , “ She had difficulties going down the stairs. Her pace was hesitant compared to the others. She must have an eyesight impairment. But that's not the point. Did you hear what she said ?” I tried to remember. “What ? Donovan's story or the wolf part ?” Sherlock was lost in his thoughts. “Neither. I mean, her last comment. 'Holmes Boys.' She didn't say 'Sherlock Holmes.' She said 'Holmes Boys'...” “ So ?” I replied. Sherlock turned to me. Very grave.

“She knows about Mycroft. How can she know about Mycroft ? I never talk about Mycroft to strangers ! His very existence is almost a government secret. How can she say so casually that they are two Holmes ? ”   
Indeed, that was odd.  
“Besides, I think I heard someone else calling us 'Holmes Boys' before...”   
Sherlock was silent for three days afterward, lost in the deep recesses of his Mind Palace.


	6. CHAPTER FIVE

After my working hours ended, I decided to pay a visit to Sherlock at Baker Street. Mary wanted some time for herself in silence. She was getting slow and drowsy and didn't like it. I was reluctant to leave her alone but she could get fidgety if her whims were not satisfied and you don't want to have Mary Morstan-Watson against you, I can tell you that...  
Mrs. Hudson welcomed me with an anxious face. I heard loud voices upstairs. She didn't have to tell me what was going on. Mycroft was also paying a visit that wasn't friendly at all. 

“I am getting out of patience !” yelled a now-pompous-no-more angry Mycroft.   
“Welcome to the club, brother dear !” screamed back Sherlock in his bored-out-of-his-wits booming voice, the one that made me want to hide all the guns.   
“So, what are you suggesting ? Do we have to wait for the third World War to break out ?” Mycroft sounded seriously pissed off. And him being a master of composure and self-control. That was truly scary, hearing him losing it. And I knew he had reasons to. Problem is, he didn't seem to understand that there was really nothing Sherlock could do.   
“Nothing, brother mine. I can't suggest anything, because there is NOTHING !!” The last word was shouted an octave higher. That was when I decided to step forward.   
“Mycroft, what do you expect Sherlock to do ? We already tried all the leads and once again, yes, there is nothing. I guess that, for once in you two's life, you'll just have to wait.” And actually pray that the third World War does not break out, I thought. But I am sure they were too tensed to have any sense of humor around here. The silence grew heavy. We finally sat down ( Mycroft used my own chair, as usual, Sherlock in his own Corbusier one and litle-ole-me on the couch ) and they kept looking at each other like two dogs ready for a fight. This was incredibly tiresome. I needed to say something to break the stand-still. 

“Okay, now ladies. While we are comfy and calm, we can try to have a casual decent conversation like normal human beings.”   
The two of them scoffed scornfully in unison which was eerie considering they had an almost similar attitude. This little twin-like superior air destroyed any parcel of good-willing understanding I had about their mutual frustration. I opened my mouth to say something I shouldn't have.   
“Face it, you two. We're stuck for now ! Once in your life, you'll wait. Mycroft, if your services cannot help us, at least, cut your brother some slack. With that new Sergeant on the scene who's ruining Sherlock's chances to any case, we are a little touchy right now.”  
In one second, Mycroft palled and straightened himself. 

“The new Sergeant ?” His voice was faltering a bit. “ Hannah Ronder ? You know about her ?” He turned to Sherlock. “Have you talked to her ?”   
“ Yes to the first question.” Enumerated Sherlock. “ Yes, once again, to the second one. To the third, no, I don't, because she has the faculty to become invisible every time I arrive. Subsequently, no, I haven't. This is the answer to the fourth question.”  
Mycroft looked a bit relieved and sat back . Sherlock was examining him carefully.   
“You know her.” Sherlock's tone was calm and careful. I knew he was currently deducing Mycroft's words and attitude at the speed of light. “You said her name directly so you have already researched her thoroughly. Probably because she's on Lestrade team and likely to be in contact with me, you had to make sure she wasn't a threat. What you found was unexpected and worries you considerably. You've been holding your breath and your knuckles are tight indicating tension and maybe fright...” Sherlock paused. “ Is she dangerous ? Is she linked to Moriarty ? What do you know ?” 

Mycroft gulped a bit. He was hesitant.   
“I cannot say anything for sure, Sherlock. Her records are officially cleared but I have reasons to think they may be false or incomplete. Sherlock, it is only an impression but I'd like you to avoid Miss Ronder, if it's not too much trouble. At least, until all my suspicions are either confirmed or proved groundless.”   
Sherlock huffed. “ If she is linked to Moriarty, she could be our only lead ! Mycroft, the woman has uncanny abilities. She is not ordinary dumb-Yarder stock. She is currently ruining my work with the police and replacing me ! This makes her suspect. I never heard of a clever cop before ! I NEED to see her.”   
Luckily, Lestrade is not here to hear that last comment about clever cops, I thought.   
Mycroft pinched his nose with two fingers, as if he had a headache coming. “ I knew you would say that. So, she is in your way, isn't she ? I wasn't aware of it and that's another reason to avoid her.” He arose, as if getting ready to leave. “I don't know if she is connected to Moriarty, sherlock. I told you. My investigations on her are not through, yet. Maybe, she is and maybe not. Until further notice, do not contact Miss Ronder.” He looked at Sherlock straight in the eyes, very businesslike. I had an impression of déjà-vu. 

“Remember Magnussen, Sherlock.” His tone was ice-cold. “You won't be saved a second time.”


	7. CHAPTER SIX

After Mycroft's last threat, Sherlock remained silent for days. That wasn't an unusual behavior but it made me worried.   
I knew that, behind the calm, he was internally in chaos and plotting some complicated trick to sort things out. And, by the way, complicating things further. 

In fact Mycroft, once again, DID made things worse. Of course, I understand how tiring it must be to feel responsible for a little brother the likes of Sherlock Holmes...

Wait a minute, what am I saying ? 

For goodness's sakes, Mycroft is in his early forties and Sherlock, in his mid-thirties. Why the hell, would they STILL play this game of the responsible, mother-like older brother and the crazy, unpredictable kid blood ? 

Mercy me. I don't have the answer yet. 

Anyway. 

Mycroft, voluntary or not, had set Sherlock on edge. And, Sherlock being Sherlock, he did the exact opposite of what he was told to. Was it an unconscious wish, on Mycroft's part, to hurry up with the inescapable ? Because those two were bound to meet. The only thing that could have prevented it was to be for one of them two to leave London for good. Like this was ever going to happen. 

So. Sherlock managed to track another case for Lestrade's team before Greg informed us. Or even before he knew, that was unclear. Sherlock and his hobo network, again.   
We ran to the scene, unannounced and probably unwanted. It was not an extraordinary case. A simple hold-up that ended badly. Here they were in front of the pawn shop. I could see Greg's grey haired head. Next to him was standing a woman with golden brown long hair, wearing a suit and high heels. That was her. She was turning our back at us so she didn't see us coming and we still couldn't see her face. Sherlock decided to force the presentation.   
“Oi ! Lestrade !” He yelled. 

And they both whirled. And I knew that it was indeed the infamous Hannah Ronder.

And I knew why she didn't want to be seen. 

The right and lower side of her face were perfectly normal with full red lips and a bright green eye just like a cat, regular features although a little pale, but I think that was because she had a shock seeing Sherlock. 

On the other hand, the upper left side of her face was ruined. 

At that time, I thought she must have received a terrible blow to the head that damaged her left eye. It was glossy and white, like a very bad case of cataract. She surely couldn't see anything with it. Which explained the eyesight impairment Sherlock suspected the first day.   
Around the ruined eye was a web of scars like tiny threads, born silver from the circle of the lid and then coming up to the brow and temple, pink and deep. They must have hurt horribly and took long time to heal, hence the scars. Worse, as a doctor, I knew those wounds weren't taken care of properly. If she was ever operated, the surgeon who did this mess was a butcher more than a mender. As a professional, It appeared like a disgrace to me.   
The overall effect was appalling, at first. She was beautiful and shapely on one part but the savagery of her scars on that pretty face made her look like a female version of Two-face, the Batman villain who had one side burned with acid. It was horrifyingly shocking. 

We stared without making any sound. There was a hugely awkward moment that must have lasted only a few seconds but felt like an eternity.   
“Sherlock, what the hell ? !” That was Lestrade. I felt myself go bright red. I started to stammer an apology but that was no good. Sherlock was totally mute and totally eyeing the woman who stared back at him, still very pale and very stern.   
“Sorry, Greg. We thought that... you know... we could be useful.” Greg gave me a dubious look then saw that his subordinate and his most bothersome friend were looking at each other like cats ready to tear each other's throat.

“Oh, hey Sherlock.” He uneasily said. “ Sorry, mate but we are done here. Again.” He gestured to the lady “This is my new sergeant, Hannah Ronder. I told you about her.”   
The sergeant gave a small nod to Sherlock. She managed to hide her tension but very slightly. I could see that she wasn't pleased at all with Sherlock's presence but not in the way Donovan used to have. A more angsty way. That was not dislike or defiance like Donovan or Anderson, nor pure hatred bordering on insane admiration and fulfilled with perverted lust like Moriarty. It was something else, something darker. “Hannah”, pursued Greg “Meet our consultant Sherlock Holmes and his partner, Doctor John Watson.”  
“How do you do.” She simply said. That was the same lightly rusty and educated voice we heard on the staircase. She turned from Sherlock (who was still looking at her, stony-faced, without answering) to me. “Very pleased to meet you, Doctor Watson, I've heard so much about you.”   
As she said this formality, her face went suddenly bright and flirty. A brutal change that left me puzzling. Plus, the way she said it rang a weird bell in my mind. The first of a long line. That was the first time when I sensed that, in a peculiar way, I knew her. She was terribly familiar but her scars made her look so extraordinary that I couldn't grasp what or who she was reminding me of. Considering the rest of the story, I can say that these defects were the worst and best disguise in the same time. She could be easily recorded, thanks to that, but in the same time, it protected who she really was. No one bothered to look beyond the difformity to see her actual face.   
It was hard to look at her in the eyes without being rude and offensive but that white lifeless dead eye seemed to stare right through skin and bones to your very soul. It was really unsettling. 

I did a very uninteresting small talk with Sergeant Ronder and Lestrade. We acted as if there was no silent boffin oggling us and making us unconfortable with his deafening silence and his total lack of communication. Greg and I knew that Sherlock had shut us down totally and was entirely focused on the Ronder Woman who apparently decided she didn't care. I grew rather found of her ability to simply IGNORE Sherlock with grace and ease. Not many people could do that and not feel their stomach churn under his heavy gaze.   
I can't remember why but at one moment she finally turned to Sherlock, acknowledging his existence about some trivia. “..... Won't you agree, Mister Holmes ?” She said with a polite condescending smirk I found worse than any of Donovan's. 

But the smirk froze when we realized what Sherlock was doing. 

He wasn't paying attention to anyone. He had silently raised one hand, palm straight, fingers tight and was slowly directing it to a certain angle towards Sergeant Ronder's face. He lightly bent his head and almost closed an eye. And that's when I knew what the hell he was doing.   
He was hiding the damaged part of her face so he could deduce the intact one. Casually. As if she was some piece of ordinary evidence. 

“SHERLOCK !!” I shrieked. That was the worst, the rudest action he ever made in front of me. Greg jumped like he was burned and grabbed Sherlock's arms. “John, get him out of here. NOW !!” He was mad. I muttered another silly apology, grabbed Sherlock in turn and pushed him roughly so we could leave the damn place.   
Once in the cab, I yelled everything I knew to him. I treated him with every name that could come to my mind. Twat, cock, imbecile, selfish rude bastard, etc. ... I was at my wit's end because I couldn't believe how shameful and gross that was. At that time, I really thought he was mocking that poor girl. 

I had no idea then that he knew right now what was one of Hannah Ronder's big secrets. 

I didn't realize that he was in shock, hence his absence of response to my ravings and rantings. 

I didn't realize that he was trying to figure out what the hell he was supposed to do now.


	8. CHAPTER 7

Of course, I kept yelling once we went up the stairs in Baker Street. I was so mad I didn't even realized that Sherlock was not paying any attention. He was coming up quickly for he knew already that Mycroft was here with a very worried Mrs. Hudson.   
I stopped in my tracks, not only because I was surprised to see the G-man uptight in the middle of our living room (well, what used to be our own while I was still living here...) but because he looked more pissed than I was. 

“I told you not to see her.” It was a very cold statement. The subtext was that we were dead, I think. We had just met Hannah Ronder a few minutes ago. I couldn't believe he was THAT fast to track us down. Sometimes I think Mycroft is Big Brother incarnate.   
Sherlorck snorted and crossed his arms against his chest. A deliberate act of defiance towards his elder brother and the first truly humane reaction he had since we saw the Sergeant. But there was something else. I sensed that Sherlock was seriously pissed too and not just because Mycroft was trampling on his prerogatives. There were talking a language I didn't know. AGAIN. About facts I had no idea of. AGAIN. I hate it when they do this...  
“I have been perfectly clear. I was asking one thing from you.” He hit the floor with the brolly to make his point clear. “ONE. THING. Not to see this woman ! And what do you do ? You...” He was going to say more but Sherlock stopped him by raising one accusatory finger at his brother.  
“Were you planning to tell me that she is Irene Adler's sister eventually or not ?”

*************

I know that “deafening silence” is a boring-to-death cliché. But how can I express the horrible blank that literally exploded in the room after Sherlock dropped the proverbial bomb ?  
I couldn't even see Mycroft's reaction because my mind was doing a terrible spinning right to the ground. WHAT ? WHO ? WHOSE ? In the same time I was trying to process what Sherlock just said, an infinity of tiny details who looked absurd if taken separately did a crazy puzzle in my head to form one logical image.   
Hannah Ronder (Adler ? Ronder ? Whatever...) had a flirtateous way that reminded me of a once beautiful woman, not so long ago, standing naked in a white parlour with a confident smile, her skin like pink satin, her eyes like a cat's and Sherlock's collar in her mouth. And I was ashamed not to be able to take my eyes off her.   
For the record, it was years before I even met Mary. So, no cheating on this side.  
The Woman and the Sergeant actually had the same smile and the same eyes, even if Hannah was definitely rounder of face and scarred. They almost had the same intonation of voice, even if Hannah's was more discreet. Sisters ? Yes, possible. They did ressemble each other enough. Not to mention the brain capacity rivalling Sherlock's...

And then I remembered that the one and only Woman for Sherlock was dead. Buried somewhere in Pakistan with her head cut off, probably. One tiny detail Sherlock had no idea of, considering that Mycroft and I had lied to him about it.   
Oh, lordy... To Sherlock, she was alive and kicking in the U.S. This was going to be a mess to explain to him. 

Mycroft did manage to keep a contenance. “So.” He made a little turn with his umbrella, taking his time to find his words. “You know about this. I guess you would have eventually, even without seeing her but...”   
“No.” Sherlock cut him. “I didn't know. I just made the assumption that they might be relatives. They looked similar and of appropriate age. This is enough to assume they are sisters. Ronder combs her hair the same particular way the Woman did, although without tying it. They're both clever enough to spite me, not to mention that I am pretty sure the Sergeant wants me dead, or, at the very least, thrown out of the Yard. And, last but not least, I heard her say 'Holmes Boys', talking about us to Lestrade and his minions. Remember who was the last person to call us like this ? Not to mention that means she knows about you. So I had a sufficient amount of reasons to be suspicious. You just confirmed that my deductions were correct.”  
I heard Mycroft mutter a curse. He turned around and sat on MY chair. Again. I had to take the sofa, as usual.   
“What does she want ? “ Sherlock pursued.   
“I don't know but...”   
“What do you mean, you don't know ?” I said “You know everything !”   
“I know who she really is and what happened to her. I may have theories about why she is so hostile, though no one needs to be you, Brother dear, to guess why. And as for what does she want, that remains a mistery because she is not letting anything out of her bag !”   
I decided to go straight to the point. “In that case, tell us who she is ? Is her name really Ronder ?”

Mycroft settled down comfortably on the chair and sighed.   
“I guess it's better to get on with it.” he said “No, Ronder is not really her name, only her mother's maiden name. Irene and Hannah were both born in Oxford. Their mother, Louise, married a mecanic of russian origins. Isaac Adler. The man was a drinker and probably abused his wife and daughters. One night, when Irene and Hannah were respectively 15 and 8 years old, the police showed at their house to discover their mother and the elder sister having a fit while the little one was bleeding profusely, her eye destroyed by a hit and the father 'accidentally' impaled on the family's kitchen knife.”  
Sherlock humphed. “ Are these facts or just some sob story the Woman made to spice up her legend ?” Indeed, it looked a little too good to be true. Mycroft sighed. “Facts, I am afraid. I have seen the police records. They termed it as an accident but I do believe either Irene Adler or her mother stabbed their drunkard of a sire and mate to save the child from being bludgeoned to death. The mother died eventually of heart failure some years later and the girls went briefly into foster care.”   
I indeed felt a chill. Nice start in life. And no wonder the Woman had some counts to settle with fate and men of power in general.   
“So Irene left Oxford for London to live with an aunt on her mother's side who was a reknown elite escort with an impressive clientele. I think Irene started her aprenticeship in gallantry there. Hannah Adler chose an ordinary career in the force. Although she had trouble being accepted because of the physical aptitude, being partially blind... But it seems that her appearance and perspicacity made her an ennemy of some conservative forces. Unfortunately, in the same time she was advancing in her carreer, so was Irene Adler and some made the connection between Hannah and the Woman.”  
“Which explains why she changed her name.” Completed Sherlock.   
“And why she tries to outgrown you.” I added.   
“Of course.” Cut Sherlock. “She believes her sister is dead, probably. She may not know she is under witness protection in America. Or she wants her back and considering that's impossible... No wonder she hates us.” Sherlock eyed us carefully. “Maybe we should just tell her that the Woman is fine where she is and maybe she will cease to interfere.”   
Mycroft and I shared a brief look. I was pretty sure at that moment that Sherlock knew we had hidden some important facts from him. Little did we know that he was hiding a HUGE one from US.

***********

Mycroft left after lots of useless recommendations we all knew Sherlock was not going to take into account. We discussed about the probable connection between Moriarty, his presumed coming back and Hannah Ronder-Adler or the Sergeant as we took the custom to call her. Sherlock and Mycroft looked highly suspicious that they might be a link between Moriarty and Ronder. I had no particular idea but I suggested that we left her alone for now. After Sherlock's little show, I seriously doubted that Lestrade would want Sherlock to be back on the scene for a while. Couldn't blame him...  
Then, as I saw Mycroft leaving through the window, I witnessed a scene that totally petrified me. I was so struck that I forgot to call Sherlock to come and see that but I think, at that point, that it was useless. He already know what was going now and, considering that there was nothing he could do, he had decided to let things follow their flow. 

I saw Mycroft's black limo slowly parking in front of our doorstep (well, it's not mine anymore, but... whatever...) like it owned it. I saw Mycroft step out of the door, closing it, passing his umbrella on his arm to check on his cellphone, looking bored out of his wits. Nothing unusual up to that.   
Then I saw him raise his head from the phone to look cautiously at someone on the opposite sidewalk.   
And there she was. Hannah Ronder. Arms crossed, straight on her feet and calmly detailing Mycroft as if she had every right to be there, obviously spying on us. She was looking at him as if Mycroft were nothing but a hindrance, barely worthy of her attention. I wonder how she came so quickly to Baker street (cab, probably, but mind you she was fast !) and what the hell was she looking for here except troubles ?   
They locked eyes instantly, judging and evaluating each other. I thought of two huge felines ready to tear each other's throat. I think that was the first time they saw each other in the flesh. I had no idea what went through their heads at that moment. But for some reason, after a long moment, Mycroft decided to break the encounter first and entered the limo. He didn't try to talk to her or made any gesture. Surely, he went away to plan his next move now that an official declaration of war was sent right to his door. Well, ours in fact, but... Oh, you got the point.  
Suddenly, I made the assumption that maybe Sherlock was not Hannah Ronder-Adler's target. That, in fact, like her sister before her, she was using Sherlock to get at Mycroft...


	9. CHAPTER EIGHT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are getting in gear, slowly but surely...

After John and Sherlock left, (well, after Sherlock made his nice little show to one of MY subordinates) I had to make countless apologies to Hannah. I would have gladly slapped the bastard. He could gloat about my failed marriage or John's sister's alcohol problem in front of me or even others all he wanted, but for god's sake !! Not deliberately insulting the people I was working with. I didn't take Donovan and Anderson into account, they had a personal love-hate relationship with Sherlock I wasn't trying to understand anymore. Even if Hannah's latest revelations shed a different light on this case.  
But Hannah ? Come on ! That was petty even for Sherlock. Only because he was vexed that we had someone in our ranks that could maybe, MAYBE, equal him, he had to behave like that ? I was mad and swore to myself I was not going to call him again until he made a proper apology to Sergeant Ronder. Even if I knew this was not going to happen in a million years. 

But then, Hannah didn't seem so offended. She looked almost... amused. Like she knew he would act like this. The woman had a way to puzzle me every time.   
I had barely tried to make her understand when she waved a quick goodbye to the team and said she would see us later at the Yard. She grabbed a cab and off she went. Just like that.   
She came back a little later but she never said where she rushed to. We didn't ask, actually. We had work to do and no time to spy on each other.

It was some days after this little event that I witnessed something even more disturbing and scary than a simple rude attitude.   
There was nothing tough to do that day for once. It was relatively quiet in the yard. We did paperwork and we were starting to get bored. Donovan was annoying me, yawning like crazy. Then, the time to call it a day was closing in and we decided to stop for a pint in the pub. So, out we went, Sally, Hannah, some other pals and I, right to our usual place.   
We were halfway through it when Hannah's cell rang. She looked at the number, smiled a weird smile, and cut the phone. But, closing to the pub, the phone had rung three times, very insistently. She cut all the calls, still with that weird smile. As if refusing to answer was part of a game.   
“Jealous boyfriend ?” I said, trying to be funny.   
“You bet.” Hannah said, putting the phone in her pocket.   
We were about to cross the road to enter the pub when a huge limo stopped us. Oh, no, I thought, not him again... 

When he summons me, he is always careful that no one we know is nearby. If Sherlock had any idea that his brother employs me to partially watch over him, he would cut any ties with yours truly and I wouldn't blame him. Mycroft helped me through my parent's hospitalization and my kids's education. The wife having left us to tend for ourselves, I cannot say it was unwelcome but I knew there was a price to pay someday, meaning my... friendship with Sherlock Holmes.   
I was seriously pissed. The bastard didn't even care that I might be busted. I was about to lash out at him, when he got out of the car, all prim and proper and more pissed than I was. Except that he didn't even look at me to go straight at Hannah. Now, that was something, considering she didn't even seem surprised. They calmly looked at each other but there were sparkles flying all around.   
“I do not appreciate being mocked at, Miss Adler...” He started.   
“So you know.” She simply said. (And then I thought, “What did he call her ? 'Adler' ?”) He was clutching that annoying brolly in a threatening way. I had no idea what the fuck was going on between them two and it was starting to scare me. Mycroft Holmes made a disdainful grimace that simply hid anger apparently.   
“Miss Ronder, get in the car.”   
This was an order. Not an invitation. I started to open my mouth and step forward to stop all this but he gave me a seriously dangerous glare. I never saw him like that. Hannah did not seem that much impressed. She was rather confident, once again as if all of this was planned.   
“No.” She answered on the same tone.   
He looked under control but obviously, he didn't like to be contradicted. I knew that much but, for god's sakes, what the hell did he want with her ? And, here I was, nothing I could do...  
“Miss Ronder...” He started, and his tone indicated he was not to be disobeyed.   
“I said no.” She continued in that straight confident tone, but without arrogance, as if she was explaining a simple fact to rather slow kid. “Once in your life, Mister Holmes, you'll have to accept that not all of us are at your service.” Mycroft tried to control himself. I could see his cheeks turning scarlet. For sure, he wasn't expecting such resistance.   
“For the last time, get in.” This time, his words felt like a gun drawn out.   
“For the last time, get lost.” She answered on the same tone.   
It was eerie. Like a male-female reflection speaking on the same grounds. Horrifyingly terrifying. I had to remember how to breathe.

Finally he grabbed the umbrella (I thought he was going to hit her with it...) like he was going to strangle someone. He turned to his limo. She had won, I don't know how.   
“You'll regret this.” He spat.   
She just smiled. 

For the next few days, we knew we were watched by a dark limo. Once I could actually see Mycroft Holmes staring at us like a hawk.   
“Freak's creepy brother looks at you a great deal.” Donovan said cautiously.  
“I am sure he is.” She simply answered.


	10. CHAPTER NINE

Mycroft was in a killing mood.   
And in his usually well-educated mind he started to internally yell all kind of variants for the words “bitch.” Needless to say he'd rather have his tongue cut then say it out loud. So psychic screams it was…

He had tried a discreet confrontation with Miss Adler-Ronder, but as he should have expected from someone brilliant enough to avoid his surveillance for so long, she resisted. And it was hard for Mycroft to 'invite' her without being noticed. It is easy to abduct a lonely army doctor, but a Yarder, a member of the force, it is another problem... Except if she or he came willingly, like Greg Lestrade.  
But a text from his PA lightened his mood as well as created a new tension. 

“Package on its way. Ten minutes.”

Finally, the Ronder-Adler Woman had complied. And Mycroft couldn't guess why. Whatever, he was going to savor this one. He is not a sadist, but his younger years as chief interrogator for the MI-6 gave him a secret taste for breaking down the subject's defenses, in finding the way to invade their minds, even the toughest ones. It was hard to find a proper challenge these days and, sort of, he was grateful for the Ronder-Adler Woman. She was a release somehow from the tension caused by the Moriarty situation. Or shall we say, rather absence of situation.   
Nevertheless, this was going to be a welcomed distraction from all of this. He couldn't wait. 

She was crossing the hall as if she was marching to battle. Mycroft could hear her shoes clicking on the marble floor. He could have 'invited' her to a more discreet location, maybe not his private office at the Diogenes' club (problem was, female guests were not allowed there, only assistants were tolerated), but maybe his usual warehouse... She was penetrating his own mansion, his dear fortress of solitude and it was a huge risk for anything could happen there. But it was also his domain and she had no way to escape.   
Like her sister before her, her fate could be sealed here. This was no innocent choice on Mycroft's behalf. 

He was sitting in the very same dining room where, some years ago, a beautiful woman taunted him with her damn camera phone, at the very same place he occupied that time. He started to feel a knot in his stomach and willed himself to his usual cold persona.   
There she appeared. She was wearing her sergeant suit and high heels. No jewelery but her abundant chestnut-gold hair were all over her shoulders, which was quite an ornament. And of course, her scars gave her an eerie look, like something supernatural. Mycroft could not help but admire this particular appearance. Her face could seem ruined but her strength and intelligence made it beautiful indeed. He scolded himself for pondering about such trivia. That wasn't him at all. 

“You finally deign to honor my humble adobe, Miss Adler...”  
“Ronder.” She cut him dryly. 

Mycroft stopped with his mouth opened but he smiled at the retort. She was already in a fighting mood. Perfect. It gave him the advantage if she let her emotions taking over. She didn't look surprised for him to know the truth about her parentage, but she seemed irritated to be re-connected to this part of her life. Maybe her sister wasn't her concern anymore...

“Miss Ronder, then. How easy for you to step away from your troubled past... I wish all of us could do the same.” She smiled unpleasantly. “Do you, now...” She murmured. 

He let a moment pass. Unfortunately, she didn't start the conversation to avoid the silence as he expected. She knew interrogation technique. He should have guessed it. 

“Miss Ronder then…” he used a deliberately ironical tone, “You must know that I made a thorough research about you and discovered that you are interested in my brother… You've been spotted several times in his street, not far away from his door.” She remained silent. “… Furthermore, your appearance coincides with the coming back of a certain individual...” 

He stopped. He had noticed something. 

As soon as he had said 'a certain individual', Hannah Ronder had brutally blanched (heart speed drastically raised) and her lips contorted in a discreet but weird grimace as if she had hiccuped or something. She had almost put her hand to her mouth but prevented it. Mycroft was indeed surprised. The mention of Moriarty's very existence gave Hannah Ronder the need to… throw up? Faint? Indeed, it made her sick.   
Finally, a crack in the armor. Whatever it might mean.

“... And we are still looking for this certain individual for national security...” Again, that time, she breathed heavily. Very interesting. “I am sure you understand this is a priority and that we must know if said individual...” Another time the gesture of the hand and more desperate... “... has any kind of connection with you...”   
“Do you, now.” She murmured. 

Mycroft was sure the subtext was “I am going to make mince pies out of your guts and dance on your mangled limbs if you dare speak again.”

“So, Miss 'Ronder'...” He deliberately gave an insulting tone to her name. A little more, just a little more and she would be ready to crack... “Do you have any knowledge of Jim Moriarty's whereabouts? I am quite sure now, by your body language, that you have some insight into Moriarty's situation and if you cooperate...” 

Mycroft couldn't finish his phrase for Hannah Ronder had just hit the table with such violence that it resonated through the whole room to the hall. 

“Shut. Your. Damn. Trap.” 

Her voice was ice-cold. Her eyes were on fire, all pretense of civility gone for good, her hands were rock hard fists, her skin looked dark, like a panther about to jump. Mycroft had pushed too far and he brutally remembered that he had not Sherlock's fighting skills and that, woman or not, she was a terrible opponent. He hoped she didn't see him gulp.

“You Holmes shits...” She snarled “You deduce, you cut through the skin, you drink the blood and eat the flesh... You search until there is no more matter, nothing left to deduce and what does it leave to peasants like us ? Only to wither and die. Courtesy of Sherlock “Shitty-brat” and Mycroft “Asshole” Holmes !” She screamed the last sentence and threw the silver tray holding the crystal whiskey bottle and glasses to the floor with a single backhand. 

“Now, now, no need to...” Mycroft was cut by some precious piece of furniture broken by a single blow. The woman had indeed a tremendous strength. Where did she get it ? Certainly not by police training !   
“I. SAID.” She screamed breaking another regency chair which was worth a fortune. “SHUT YOUR FUCKING TRAP!!” 

Now, things were bad. Very bad. And it wasn't about the aggression on his precious belongings (she had broken the very chair her sister sat on, he couldn't help but noticing it)... Mycroft doubted to get out of here without any bruises. He believed she was too much on the force side to murder him... but, who knew? She was showing teeth, feral, ready for the attack. Her sanity gone. Mycroft had touched a sensitive spot. A hugely sensitive one. He guessed that her anger against him and his brother was a cover for something horrible. Something that involved Jim Moriarty.

“Now, you listen to me. It will do a lot of good for your education.” She barked a bitter laugh. Mycroft stood still. Any wrong word, any misplaced gesture could aggravate her state of mind. “You and your bastard brother have ruined my sister's life.” She held back her tears. “I loved her. I really loved her. We were not always agreeing with each other, I didn't like the way she was leading her life but I DID love her.” She slammed her hand on the table. “And YOU, uptight piece of shit, you destroyed everything. And you ….! You have no idea of what love is. You don't even love your own brother ! You'll let him die if needed be and if he was threatening your goddamn career !!”

Hearing that, something snapped inside Mycroft. She could accuse him of everything and still be right in a way. Yes, he would not be supportive of Sherlock if he toed on the line (which he had, actually) so he would have let anything pass, except one thing. He couldn't accept the fact she might question his affections to Sherlock. It was strangely unbearable. He rose to his feet, ready to answer the accusation. With a similar unfairness and aggressiveness. 

“Hold on a second, Missy ! You describe Irene Adler as if she was a saintly martyr! Do you have a clear idea who your sister really was?” She looked at him, her breath took away by indignation. To hell with that, thought Mycroft, if I am to be beaten black and blue, at least I'll say what is on my mind. 

“Your precious big sister held capital information that could have threatened the lives of hundreds of innocent British citizens ! She blackmailed everyone and manipulated Sherlock so she could get to ME.” He slammed his thumb into his chest, he knew he was over dramatic but he couldn't help it. “She asked for the services of a psychopath to thwart national security and all of this for what?! A scandalously, ridiculously huge amount of wealth and the pleasure of beating my brother and I to the ground! Sister Dear played with fire, lady, and she got what she deserved!”

Now he was screaming and deep in his mind he was ashamed of letting his emotions go wild. He was always in control but it was as if someone else had taken the reins. On one hand, it was incredibly liberating and on the other he knew he was doing something he shouldn't. 

“ 'Pieces of shit', as you elegantly remark, we may be, Missy, but at least we are not putting this country in jeopardy! Sister Dear and you may have had an awful childhood but that is no excuse for her behavior and the fact that you keep protecting her and that monster you are apparently related to! Why can't you say his name? Jim Moriarty!” 

He had screamed the name. And she seemed ready to break, her skin was so pale, her face went from furious rage to crumbling horror. She was hiding something and he was coming closer and closer to it, trampling on her barriers, on her soul. It was too intense and he couldn't stop. 

“Moriarty! Come on ! Jim Moriarty! Who are YOU to him? Speak ! JIM MORIARTY!”

She fell on her knees. All strength gone. As if Jim Moriarty's very name was destroying her. She was about to throw up, her dignity lying pitifully on Mycroft's carpet. She was unable to talk now and Mycroft had to call Andrea to lead her in the bathroom. His PA came back a little while. Hannah Ronder was indeed very sick but demanded to be left alone for a moment.   
Mycroft didn't know what was more infuriating. The fact that he was way over the line, the fact that his interrogation had such a ridiculous conclusion or the fact that, for once, he wasn't very proud of his deeds. 

He had to try to gain her cooperation, even by force. It was vital. Maybe she had a bad history with Moriarty and that could help in their investigations.   
Then he remarked that Miss Ronder took her sweet time. 

Mycroft and Anthea went straight to the bathroom. It was abnormally silent. He knocked on the door and called only to be answered by what was clearly a moan of pain.   
“Miss Ronder?” He knew that something was very, very wrong when a strangled voice croaked loudly “Go away!”   
Mycroft took the matter in his own hands and forced the door. Adrenalin is a thing that makes you equal with your damn brother... He busted into the bathroom to a scenery of gore and horror. 

On the floor, between Hannah Ronder's legs and on her hands (she was trying to hold herself on the bathtub but couldn't move), a pool of crimson blood was making the immaculate porcelain bathroom look like an horror movie scene. Hannah Ronder, now as white and defeated as a corpse, trying in vain to sit up, her mouth opened in a silent scream of despair, pain and defeat, was having a miscarriage.


	11. CHAPTER TEN

That day, Mary and I were having tea at 221B. Sherlock had been silent for days and Mrs. Hudson had given us a worried call to try and wake him up.   
But we weren't having much success. While the three of us were trying for small talk, the amazing genius was lying on his couch, staring at nothing and looking like an old rag. He was in dire need of a razor, which was something new in his behavior pattern. Sherlock was always neat, even in his worst, unless he had to go undercover in crack houses...

I was about to shake him up somehow when we heard a racket downstairs. It was almost a relief. Sherlock is impossible to handle when he has decided to avoid reality in his so-called “mind palace.” The welcomed intruder was Anthea, the incredibly gorgeous and snobby woman who worked as Mycroft's PA. She barged in the living room despite Mrs. Hudson's protests.  
“Doctor Watson, you are to come with me. It is an emergency.”   
Typical. John, come here, John, do this, do that. Screw them.   
“Mycroft can wait until I bring my pregnant wife home. Period.”  
She sighed painfully, as if, she was talking with a very unreasonable kid.   
“John, I am really sorry but as I said, it is an emergency.” She gave Mary a look I didn't like at all. All condescension and pity. “A woman in Mister Holmes' mansion is losing her own baby.”

Needless to say she has a way to make me change my mind. I let Mary at Sherlock's. He desperately tried to have his say in all this but Anthea shut him up, saying he would be picked up later.   
We arrived as fast as we could and, lo and behold, the woman Mycroft was trying to help was no other than Hannah Ronder, the girl full of surprises.   
Except that she was in big trouble and there was nothing I could do. The miscarriage was already done. There was nothing to save... Sometimes my job could be hugely depressing. 

She was a mess, in a state of shock. I had to sedate her and help Mycroft clean and put her to bed. Everything had happened so fast I had no time to wonder about what the actual hell was going on. If I hadn't been the doctor here, I could have find time to wonder about what Ronder was doing in Mycroft's home, how could she be pregnant and who was the father. Did Lestrade knew about all this, did Mycroft knew, Sherlock, anyone ? What was Mycroft's part in the incident, and, in general and in a very straightforward way, what the fuck?!  
Instead, I kept my mouth shut, focused on my job, and made assumptions. Another mistake. 

Hannah was asleep. Finally.   
She was in an awful state, as often in case of a failed pregnancy. Even the ones who were not sure of keeping the baby were mostly sad when the choice was taken away from them. They had barely got used to the idea of a new life growing inside their bellies and the next morning, this sparkle was gone without any particular reason.   
It is difficult to explain how a miscarriage occurs. It is often no one's fault. Apparently, Nature sometimes decides who is to live or not. Or rather, when the fetus can not produce a healthy child, it disappears on its own.   
It doesn't mean the parents could resigned themselves easily. 

Mycroft's attitude had surprised me. He had gently held Hannah while I was attending to her. She didn't seem to mind, but in fact she was too panicked to notice anything beside the fact that she was losing her child. And when I told them it was over, he looked as desperate as she was, although more reserved. That was the reason for my main mistake. His attitude, even as restraint at it was, was the one of the husband and father. Caring and grieving in a mycroft-ish way. The pregnancy was fairly recent so it could be plausible...   
What definitely made up my mind was the horrified expression when he spotted and picked on the floor the bloody remains of what could have been a human being and stared at it in his hand, all disbelief. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. A vulnerable Mycroft, shaken in his certainties. I thought that maybe he had realized that there were some things that he had no power upon. He raised his head and looked at me. “Can we not ?...” He babbled. “ Can't we ?”   
I gently closed his hand on the poor thing and I said in my best 'compassionate doctor' mode. “No, Mycroft. We can't. You know we can't.” That was the one and only time I felt I was the bigger person in front of him. He made a face I couldn't read. Something between sadness, failed attempt to seem in control and a trace of anger. Maybe even self-loathing, but I wondered why...  
“He's the father.” That was the thought that popped into my head. That was the only reasonable explanation for this emotional outburst. At least, at that moment, that was exactly what it looked like. A grieving parent.  
I was wrong, of course, but what if I had known he wasn't ? Would things happened differently? Maybe and maybe not. 

Hannah was tucked into bed, barely conscious with the sedatives I've given her. She had pushed me away, screaming that she didn't want to be 'drugged' as she said. But I managed to convince her she needed sleep to recover (and to forget for now, I wanted to say but it wouldn't have been very helpful). So she let me.   
Once she was asleep, I surprised Mycroft, still in the bathroom, gathering the remnant of the miscarriage in a silver bonbonière that must have been there. It was ghastly but I took it as another proof of his failed paternity. He put it away, looking almost apologetic.   
“Just in case, she wants to see it, to bury it...” he said, clearly a little confused.   
“It's not your fault.” I cut him. He looked at me as if I had just grown another head.   
“What do you mean ?” He carefully said.   
“Sometimes, those kind of things happen. It was not meant to be, that's all...I'm sorry. Remember that it is not your fault, nor Hannah's.”   
Mycroft snorted. “Why are you telling me that ? I am not the one who sat in my own blood losing my child.”  
“Yes,” I muttered. “But... You're the father ? Right?”   
In that moment, Mycroft stared at me with a really weird expression, as if something was doing a puzzle in his mind at full speed, as if I was the answer to a question that was burdening his mind.   
“Still,” he said. “I am not the one who had the miscarriage.”   
And on these ambiguous words he settled his fate and Hannah's.


	12. CHAPTER ELEVEN

I made a couple of calls. Without Mycroft knowing it. Or maybe he knew but he let me organize this little family meeting because it was part of the plan he had formed the minute I blurted out my stupid little theory.   
That was why I saw, almost at the same time, a police car in Mycroft's alley, driven by Lestrade, with Donovan at his side, and a cab carrying a fuming Sherlock. The two cars made it to the super-surveyed monstrous mansion without being intercepted. Which Mycroft would have ordered if it their coming would have been a bother. 

Lestrade and Donovan were legitimately panicked and it was difficult for me to give them information about what had happened. 

“Miscarriage ? HOW ?!”  
“She didn't tell us anything! How could she keep that a secret ?!”  
“And who the hell is the...”  
“Ohmygod, Greg! We went up and down all over London, following cases for weeks non-stop! That must be the reason why...”  
“But WHY has she kept it a secret for god's sake ?!”  
“If only she had told us...”  
“But where is the... Who is he ?! Where is she?!”

They were screaming at the same time and wouldn't let me speak. I had to explain that I didn't know much, that I had just arrived and discovered their partner's condition. Well... Former condition. That she was fine but they couldn't see her for she was asleep and needed rest.   
In the meantime, Sherlock was looking at me, or more like, deducing me. Judging by the grimace he made, he wasn't pleased by what he saw, whatever it was. And his displeasure grew at the sight of his brother coming from his front stairs, his appearance back to its ordinary neatness and control. Mycroft was back in his usual Mycroft mode, suit, umbrella and all. As if nothing had happened. Except that his eyes were lightly redder. 

He coughed discreetly to make us acknowledge him. “I am very sorry, D.I. Lestrade, Sergeant Donovan. But Sergeant Ronder is unable to see anyone at the moment. And I doubt she'll be able to work for a few days. I'll deal with your services so no one will be bothered by the incident.”   
He declared this as if he had a say on Hannah Ronder's life and started typing directions on his phone. I couldn't help but notice the faint trembling of his fingers. I did learn some observation skills with Sherlock…  
“Sergeant Ronder will remain with me for the time being.” He tucked the phone in his breast pocket. Apparently he had everything settled. “But she'll need some personal items from her flat. Or rather, she'll need the few possessions she has in here. I doubt she'll appreciate strangers to touch them anyway and I cannot take care of this in person. Would you be so kind as to go for them yourselves ?”   
Greg and Donovan ogled him suspiciously. He was acting as the man of the house, knowing what his paramour needed and where her stuff was. I think the DI and the Sergeant made the same assumptions as yours truly at that moment. Mycroft gave a note to Greg and a set of keys (presumably Hannah's but how did he obtain it ?!). I declared that I had nothing more to do to help Hannah and demanded to go with them, just in case. Sherlock tackled along with me and no one questioned his presence. This was Topsy-turvy Day, all right. 

I remarked that during the whole scene, Sherlock had said nothing and watched his brother, detailing him thoroughly during the whole encounter… That could pass as normal. But the look he gave Mycroft at that moment was a little scary. Big Brother had mentally silenced him with his own look that meant “Speak and there will be consequences.”  
How did I interpret it ? I was sure as hell that Sherlock had made the same deduction as me, that Mycroft had an affair with an unhappy conclusion. How naive of me... He was already two move ahead at least.   
Sherlock scoffed to Mycroft and turned around. Still he had remained silent as surely that was Mycroft's wishes.

We drove to Hannah's condo. It wasn't shabby but it was striking how austere it was... No personal decoration, no memories on the walls, standard furniture... It looked a lot like my former cheap hotel room, before I moved in at Baker Street with Sherlock. The desperate anonymous place of a desperately single person.   
A kitchen, a living room, a bedroom like a nun's cell... Except that next to her military-made bed (that was odd...) was a brand new white crib. We stopped to stare at it, sadly.   
The crib had no beddings but there was several baby items laid on it that reminded me painfully of all the tiny colored things Mary and I bought and the time we took to prepare our own nursery. Little coveralls, bodysuits, hats and sockets... I felt tears seeing a tiny teddy bear the child that was to come would never hug. She was getting ready for the baby, as Mary and I had done. The sadness of it all crashed down on us a little. 

Funny that I didn't smell the rat, then. For, if Mycroft was indeed the father and partner, Hannah would have probably lived with him and their child would have been lavished with a grand bedroom and a dressing filled up to the roof with designer clothes, huge toys everywhere and personal nannies... Not this average single-mom-on-small-income display. And yet, I didn't question it. 

Greg grabbed a piece of luggage and started to pack up Hannah's clothing while Donovan was in the bathroom, picking up necessities. There was not much. Nothing personal except some notebooks filled with scripts and what looked like a photo album. I guess it was maybe the most personal item Hannah possessed, full of childhood pictures of the Woman and her with their mother, probably. There was also what looked like several scrapbooks. In doubt, I handed Greg everything along with the few books she owned. I also took the teddy on an impulse. I didn't know if it was a good idea but something told me that Hannah would never come back here so we needed to take the most significant things. It was a distressing affair we performed in silence. 

And we left. 

It was only on the way out that I remarked the angry look on Sherlock's face. 

He was staring meanly at the crib, as if the empty thing was an insult. 

And clever-little-me thought he was angry because he was grieving. 

Sherlock is right. I can be extraordinarily stupid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading !


	13. CHAPTER TWELVE

Mycroft was at his weekly meeting, hearing reports from his subordinates but he was not entirely focused. 

His mind kept drifting away to his mansion, to one of his best guest bedrooms, the one with the exquisite Louis XVIII furniture with blue satin, and the huge four-poster bed covered with silk of the same cerulean shade. In this same magnificent bed, a work of art from a very skillful French cabinetmaker, the fragile figure of a once tough woman was currently laying. This luxury made a dreadful contrast with the woman's misery. 

He wasn't really worried. He knew that Hannah Ronder-Adler was strong enough to survive it and would never do something as petty and stupid as committing suicide. But there will be a huge amount of time lost in whining and self-pitying. He hoped he could come home soon to see the situation for himself.   
He knew he was not being very compassionate. There was the fact was that he was still angry, against Sherlock, against Moriarty, against Hannah, against everything... But in reality, he was hugely angry against himself. He knew he was responsible for the miscarriage. He was already feeling dreadfully guilty about the whole affair. And he hated it because this, all of this, his anger, the bloody incident, the presence of this sick woman in his house, was totally, utterly unplanned.   
And Mycroft always planned everything. Everything. 

Hannah Adler-Ronder-Whatever was the grain of sand in Mycroft's otherwise perfectly staged actions. 

And he simply hated it. 

In his mind, a terrible sight kept coming and going. The miserable and bloody thing lying in one of his antique silver boxes. He decided he would bury it under his rose bushes in the back garden. If Hannah agreed, of course. He didn't mind losing the box, anyway. It seemed as good a coffin as any for this sad situation.   
What he wanted was a permanent reminder of his mistakes. His one-and-only lack of self-control. Each time he would admire his rose bushes from the window of his office, he would always remember. 

Sentiments. 

And now, a new burden along with Sherlock. A burden he had only a remote connection with and few reasons to care about. Or maybe a huge one... But whatever...

On his way home, in his favorite limo, Mycroft's little grey cells were back into their usual functional mode. He had to decide what to do with Hannah Ronder. It would be interesting for her to stay. Their little quarrel was not other yet. He still had no idea of her implication with Moriarty. He only had theories and suppositions. Grim ones. But they were only what they were. Theories and suppositions. Nothing concrete. Only Hannah Ronder, or at least, his deductions of her, would tell the truth, eventually. 

Mycroft made it a personal promise. The woman ( well, the OTHER woman) was going to talk and sing like a canary whether she liked it or not. 

But not in the state she was right now. 

In fact, if Mycroft was totally honest with himself, he wouldn't care a bit about Hannah's state. He was working with, or rather secretly led, the British Intelligence Service. He had an army of highly-trained interrogators and “specialists” that would be able to get anything from her in any dreadful way possible. Without even touching her or leaving any trace on her body. He had a job to do and a country to save. A life was simply a life. 

Hadn't he said exactly the same thing, on different terms, to Hannah's sister ? 

Had he not left that same Woman to die minutes after ? 

Precisely. And he knew that, whatever Hannah Ronder might have done with Moriarty, it was related to what Sherlock and Mycroft had done to Irene Adler. Or not done to her. Indirectly or not. 

As he knew she would, Mrs. Padmore was waiting for Mycroft at the marble entrance stairs, wearing her usual strict black silk dress and hiding a rosary under her sleeve. Her gray hair in an impeccable bun. Mrs. Padmore was a chronological wonder, the very epitome of the Victorian governess. She had a scary similitude with Mrs. Danvers, the grim headmistress played by Judith Anderson, in that movie of Alfred Hitchcock's, “Rebecca”. Sometimes Mycroft wondered if she didn't take a huge delight in perfecting her gloomy character.   
Mrs. Padmore was a sort of equivalent for Mrs. Hudson, except that she was indeed hired as his housekeeper. She used to be a military nurse but she was now a widow with her children living their lives out of London and so, a little bored and lonely. 

Mycroft was one of the rare person to know that she used to be an agent on the field during the war. Her experience in this domain made her able to confront difficult situations under pressure. She had even met and worked with Ian Fleming, Mycroft's idol, long before he started to write which gave her a special aura to Mycroft and cachet to his household. He treated her sometimes with more respect than he did anyone. On the outside, a weird, lonely widow caring for an eccentric and rich bachelor. Inside, she was also a very good bodyguard. A wonder the damage you could do with a simple lead rosary. 

Not to mention that, since the day she had told him to “hold his tongue” and to “drink his tea like a good little boy for once,” Sherlock resented her and avoided her like the plague. Mycroft smiled. 

“Evening, Mrs. Padmore. How was your day ?”  
The old woman frowned, revealing more wrinkles on her elegant brow.   
“A lot of crying, Sir. Buckets full, I dare say. Not much talking, and even more less eating and drinking.”  
Mycroft sighed. No need to say that Mrs. Padmore was not talking about herself.   
“This is not good. She needs to get better and we have no time for childish outbursts.”   
Mrs. Padmore tutted. Not a good sign.   
“With all due respect, Sir. What the young lady had experienced is no easy thing to bear. Believe me, I know. ”  
Mycroft winced at the discreet reproach. He had forgot that Mrs. Padmore had also lost a baby during a mission, a long time ago, and that her own daughter had had trouble conceiving.   
“Apologies, Mrs. Padmore. But the 'young lady' has a way to play with my nerves...”  
Mrs. P. contented herself with a knowing smile. Maybe, Sherlock was right, she could be annoying. 

Mycroft tapped on the door. Of course, no answer. He came in anyway. The light was on so he presumed she was awake.   
She was still laying on the bed. Mycroft saw that she was wearing one of the silk and lace nightdress Andrea had bought at the last minute. But her face was almost as white as the fabric, except for the reddish eyes and the traces of tears hastily wiped out. 

“Mr. Holmes...” She murmured. “I wasn't expecting you tonight.”   
He sighed. She was not going to make it easy. So be it.   
“Miss Ronder, I hope you are quite comfortable with those hasty accommodations...”

She laughed softly. 

“I would be quite the spoiled brat if I had to complain. A suite worthy of a princess, my meager belongings already moved, servants... Or should I say keepers ?”  
Mycroft scoffed.   
“Of course not. You are free to go any time but you are currently quite weak from your...” He bit his tongue. “Anyway, you need time to recover and maybe my hospitality is not the worst option.”

She barked a bitter laugh. 

“Of course it isn't. Of course it is absolutely convenient for everyone. You have me under your thumb and you can't wait to extract whatever you can from me, am I wrong ?”  
She was slowly showing teeth again, like a hurt wolf.   
“Oh, wait. How stupid of me ! You have already extracted some important PIECE of information from ME, haven't you ?”

Mycroft was losing patience. He knew that he was getting too much involved in this but he couldn't really help what he was going to say.

“Miss Ronder, this is quite simple. I wouldn't care much about you even though I AM responsible for what happened to you. In fact, you have quite the knowledge of me not being the most compassionate being. So, get well or go die, if I may so. I won't care, trust me. Just know that even in her last moments, your precious sister had more guts, dignity and courage than you. She didn't waste her time crying like some dumb child.”

She went red from rage in seconds. Mycroft hoped his relief was not showing on his calculated cold face. He knew that he had won over her depression. 

“Rot in hell.” She growled, helping herself to a previously despised trail full of proper homemade lunch and starting to eat.   
Mycroft congratulated himself internally.   
Anger and desire to ruin someone else's life. The best remedy against despair.   
Even if he was said someone else.


	14. CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“I have to tell you, Brother dear, grief suits you.”

“Shut up.”

“Now, what's the next stage ? Are you going to propose so you two can 'strengthen' your relationship ? Or any stupidity you can find in any of those depressing 'self-development' manuals ?”

“I said, shut up.”

“Why, Brother, so soon after losing 'your child', it would be expected to have a little feeling, here.” 

“Sherlock, for the last time...”

“Because, honestly, John is all about YOU being 'partner of the year' to that 'poor girl.' He just CANNOT stop about how sensitive and caring you appeared to him. How tender you were to your unfortunate 'partner' and mother of 'your child.' How wonderful, Brother, finally some humanity in you.”

“Sherlock, I swear...”

“Seriously, what is wrong with you ? What are you doing with that girl ?She is bad news to us and you know it ! Why did you lie to John and Lestrade and Donovan and why did you...”

“FOR GOD'S SAKE !! I didn't lie ! They just jumped to conclusions, as usual, with their limited minds!”

“Yup, I admit they are so clouded by their compassion they didn't notice the problem with the crib.”

“The crib ? What crib ?”

“YOUR crib, MY crib, MUMMY'S crib ! Our oak crib that was made by our maternal grandfather, remember? If the child was really yours, there was no way in hell you would have tolerated it to sleep in an ordinary, standard crib. Even if the mother would not live with you. You would have send her the oak crib at any cost.”

“Clever.”

“Indeed. But that doesn't explain what you are planning with this girl, now that she must have recovered.”

“...”

“I mean, she's been staying at your place for almost a month now. I know that she went back to work. She should be back to whatever she may call her own home. Why is she still living in your guest room ?”

“...”

“Mycroft, what are you up to ?”

“...”

“Mycroft ? I said...”

“She is our only lead with Moriarty.”

“...”

“And I am not 'living' with her. I am waiting for her to lower her guard and show what is her link to him.”

“...”

“So, time and patience, Brother. Virtues you should cultivate.”

“...”

“And by the way, you have a future goddaughter whose arrival is imminent. Take time to focus on this matter. It kills time, at the very least.”

“...”

“Now, if there is no more foolishness and nagging, and whining, I am on my way, Brother. Duty calls.”

“You found yourself a goldfish.”

“Excuse me ?”

“You found yourself a goldfish. You are picking her up from work. You have chosen a rather discreet suit and your least flashy car so people in the Yard won't give her trouble for finding herself a sugar daddy !”

“How DARE you ?!”

“Brother, you made several commands from various lady shops, enough to buy her a new wardrobe. You have her followed by some of your agents. She has your personal number and she uses it to tell you where she is and what time she comes home. If she is late, you send her the limo. You have her monitored. She is settled in your home and gives orders to your household. They treat her as the lady of the house. If you're not too late, you dine together. If you are, you two have breakfast early. What am I supposed to think ?”

“I am NOT going to ask you how you know about all this. Only that it is none of your business.”

“Is it ?”

“This is strategy to gain her trust.”

“Is it ? It seems to me awfully complicated and long. And, admitting you have your way, once she is no more of use to you, what will become of her ?”

“...”

“Not to mention you fight every day. Last time she threatened to 'tear your balls apart' if you ever called her superior again about every little incident she has on the work field. She even said she would 'turn you into a dishrag' if you kept putting your 'abnormally large nose' in her professional business. You two look awfully close to each other for me. No one in their sane mind would yell at you like that in public !”

“Mind your own business, Sherlock, it will do us a lot of good. And how do you know about...? No, don't tell me... Your friend Lestrade...”

“Elementary, Brother Dear. You and Miss Ronder are not very discreet.”

“Anyway, do not meddle in this matter. Let me deal with it the way I want. And that is final.”

“...”

“And it is NOT a goldfish or whatever ridiculous metaphor you might employ.”

“...”

“More like a silver shark.”


	15. CHAPTER FOURTEEN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loooong to come but things wil go faster after this one ! Enjoy ! :)

Mycroft's last encounter with his brother left a rather painful and irritating impression. 

Because many things Sherlock threw at Mycroft's face had a piece of truth. A LARGE piece.

And he was still wondering how could he have let things go astray like that. 

She lived in his guest bedroom, she was in his personal space, she was still there when he went to work and came back. It wasn't about her taking too much space or making too much noise. She was indeed very discreet and kept to herself. In a way, she was the most respectful guest he had for years. 

But she was the longest one to stay and the one who got closest to him. 

Even if it was to throw constant tantrums when he was trying to get her to talk. Even if it was to get acid remarks and bitter under-meanings. Even if he sometimes felt he was keeping indoors a crazy stray cat. They had reached some kind of truce, of neutral territory but things were not improving either... 

True enough he must have foreseen this foolishness. Lestrade had report him the spartan bareness of her former livings. He had considered the meager belongings and couldn't help but recall the glorious courtesan in her designer clothes and luxury cars and compare her to her less fortunate sister. He had indeed started to order things for her. If Hannah was to stay, she would have to follow a certain standing.  
She protested at first, unable to comprehend why was he wasting so much money on such finery. She was not to keep them long, since she was bound to go someday. But he made her have them nonetheless and he had been careful not to chose anything too fancy she couldn't wear daily at work.   
So, aside from this, a normal pattern of life started to form. It was as Sherlock said. He sent her the limo sometimes, asking the driver not to be seen by her co-workers. They had breakfast or dinner together, depending on their timetables. But always in silence. They had a common, courteous life but devoid of trust. 

Trust was a luxury none of them could afford. 

People started to wonder at the Yard. Of course, it couldn't stay a secret. Aside from Mycroft's appearances and the car, there was the new clothes. They had welcomed her back, nonetheless, no questions asked. They mourned the baby for her but everyone then assumed that she was currently living with the father, her rich boyfriend, and both of them were trying to move on. Some vipers did claim he was her “sugar daddy”, as Sherlock said. But it was nothing Mycroft didn't foresee.   
Hannah went on working but curiously, she looked more at ease. Less anxious and and less filed with coiled anger. She had a warm relationship with John (for whom she was grateful for trying to help her). She ceased teasing and annoying Sherlock. But they didn't talk either, except about the case they were working on. Though Sherlock dreamed to have a conversation with her too, also regarding a certain person. 

In the weeks after Hannah's incident and her settlement at Mycroft's, and before John and Mary's baby's birth, things started to change before the people concerned became aware of it. 

The first sign was for Mycroft. 

As he was in his office at the Diogenes's club, up to his neck with last emergency files, he was hurrying up for the first time in decades. He usually took his time, even for the easiest one, but right now, he tried to hasten it because he didn't want Hannah to worry and wait for him.   
He stopped when he realized what he was thinking about. 

He actually didn't want Hannah to worry and wait for him. 

He felt nauseous. He felt trapped. 

He remembered something from two or three nights ago. They were together in his favorite salon, the one with the big fireplace, and even bigger library, with only two armchairs, no sofa. Proof that it was his personal place, not made for guests.   
And yet, there were together in this particular place, in front of the fire. He was on his armchair and she was lying next to him, on her belly, on the priceless Persian carpet, letting herself getting warm to the fire. She was eating potato chips and reading at the same time. She had let some tiny crumbles fell on the precious fabric and, curiously, he barely minded. That was another first.

He was too busy watching the light play on her golden brown locks, on her chubby legs she was dangling dreamily, on the peach-colored silk gown he had picked himself. And the way that silk fit perfectly her rather curvy bottom. 

He was doomed. 

Hannah Ronder was all he had on his mind. 

And it took him weeks to finally admit it.


	16. CHAPTER FIFTEEN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The action begins...

Several things happened after the miscarriage incident and my Marianne's birth. I know Mary will never tell me why she insisted for our child to be named so. There are many things about my wife that I chose not to know. Ever.   
That's why I made sure that her second name would be Wilhelmina, after Sherlock, her godfather. Compromises are the secret for a happy matrimony... More or less.   
I think we'll call her Will, most of the time. As a nickname...

So, when I managed to get some time out of diapers, feeding time, lullabies and such, I ran to Baker Street. Mind me, I was not already fed up with my lovely baby and her mum. I was rather anxious to leave because Mary was tired with the breastfeeding. Also she was feeling a little low with a postnatal depression I predicted and tried to nurse through. It's hard for an independent and strong woman like her to loose some of her freedom, even for a little time... As it was for me. Hence my return. But if I had had some sense at all, I should have avoided Baker Street like the plague and focus on my new duties.   
Habits die hard. 

Furthermore, I couldn't have come at a worst time. As soon as I stepped in, I felt the usual nervous tension in the room. The imminence of catastrophe. Nothing unusual, it was almost reassuring.   
Sherlock was pacing across the room, his phone in hand, clearly upset. He was jerking it distractingly, at the rhythm of his steps, frowning while doing so, visibly conflicted. 

“What now?”

he stopped in his tracks, finally aware of my presence.

“Hello John, didn't hear you coming. How's the baby?”

It was a total pretense. He was speaking too fast and smiling too broadly. Even I couldn't take the bait. Sherlock was on to something, mind palace in full gear and maybe doom was upon us all, again. 

“What's wrong? What is going on? “

Maybe I was a little too brusque on him. And one thing one must not do with Sherlock is to be too brusque. 

“Nothing John... Just...”

“Yes?”

“I believe Moriarty is going to contact us soon.”

“...”

“One way or the other.”

 

I fell on my former armchair. I had to take a good breath not to loose my mind.   
Because Sherlock was very rarely wrong and I brutally realized something concerning Moriarty and me.   
He had me once. Very easily. He had me in the blink of an eye, gun on my head and explosives around my waist near a pool. And I was supposed to be a good soldier. 

It would be very easy for him to get to a defenseless baby.

Would Mary's training, background and skills in her former activities be enough to protect our little girl ? It was my only hope. But it was not a certainty. Besides, it seemed that Sherlock assumed he was back from the dead. How do you protect yourself against someone who is apparently related to Michael Myers and Jason Voorhees ? 

Yes, when I'm panicking I am sarcastic. 

“HOW ?” 

I shouldn't have screamed but I couldn't help myself. Sherlock didn't seem to mind for he took a very large gulp of breath he immediately exhaled, as if he was trying to control a major issue. That was new. Sherlock used to be more wild. But he also looked more angry than panicked. Confronted to a stressful situation, he never reacted like everybody else. 

“Do not except something exceptional, John. It is rather simple and even boring. And it has everything to do with my stupid brother and his new paramour.” he growled. 

Now, we were hitting rock bottom. I was thinking about the safety of my wife and child and everyone's, by the way, and Sherlock was ruminating his brotherly grudge and jealousy. All he had in his mind was Mycroft's love life when our world was on the verge of disaster. 

“Are you KIDDING me?!” I screamed. “HOW could Mycroft and Hannah …?” I paused to think. “Well, maybe Mycroft. He had Moriarty in prison once. But Hannah? Where is her part in all of this? 

"The Woman. "

Sherlock had answered very calmly. This sudden change from hidden nervousness to true peace seemed generated by the simple mention of this sublime and cunning creature he had loved above any other. 

The one who was dead and gone. 

He knew nothing about this last, tiny detail. 

“But that's impossible!” I very stupidly blurted out. “She is...” I had almost spilled the beans but managed to stop myself only to make a weird hiccup that I am sure Sherlock had noticed. “... God knows where and cannot return in England!” 

Sherlock made a very sweet, a very scary smile. The scariest smile he ever done in front of me. 

“Precisely, John. She cannot go home.”

I felt horribly uneasy. I had the feeling that he was mocking me. 

“That is the starting point of the whole story.”


	17. CHAPTER SIXTEEN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aaand, here he comes...

The morgue is not exactly the ideal place for chit-chat. Especially when you are standing in front of what seems to be the remains of a zoo-keeper who had had an unfortunate encounter with an accidentally freed tiger. 

Meaning there was nothing much left to analyze...

Hannah admired Molly Hooper's coolness. Out of habit or bravery, this one, some meanly dubbed as “the little mouse” for her shyness and sometimes girlishness, was indeed perfectly in charge in front of pure gore horror. Hannah couldn't help herself chuckling, thinking about some tough, burly, manly-man officers she was colleague with at Oxford, who simply swooned like fragile maidens at the sight of corpses more presentable than this one. It could be incredibly funny if it wasn't occurring during a tragic case.   
Hannah and Molly got along well (as well as you can be in front of a pail full of smelly human entrails). It was easier to do this job while making private jokes. A common way in this place to remain cool in front of the underlying violence of mistreated bodies. 

“ … And he even managed to turn John's wedding into a crime scene ! Hannah, Can you imagine ? It is as if he simply attracts murder sometimes !

\- I think that the case of John's wedding was an unfortunate turn of events. If my memories are correct, it was related to one of John's military friends. And Sherlock hadn't even met the man before, wasn't it ? 

\- Well, yes... But that's an awful bunch of coincidence, don't you think ? 

To this Hannah did not answer and simply smiled. 

\- Anyway, how did you met him ?

\- Oh, long story short. I was in the morgue, doing my usual business and then in came this dark stranger with hair like a bird nest who barges in my current work and starts ordering around. I thought he was an escaped lunatic from the psychiatric ward until Mike Stamford, one of the doctors in charge, assured me he knew him. That was years ago and it hasn't changed!

On this they both laughed. It was a little forced on Hannah's side. She didn't feel quite comfortable extorting information about Sherlock out of a trusting friend. And she had the troubling feeling that Molly knew her tricks but did not care. Whatever, she could as well use it to her advantage. 

\- And about his personal life ? I know what people say but they are all men and I am sure women have a better insight about it...

That was a really thick line and Hannah was even less proud of herself, but Molly caught the bait anyway. Or at least didn't mind to do so. 

\- Well... Believe it or not, but one day, before he disappeared, he came with a camera phone and tried to search it. I think it belonged to someone he dated because it was as if he was looking for proof of... something, I don't know... Maybe she wasn't to be trusted... Well, I assume it was a woman because, some times later, the body of a dead lady came up and Sherlock arrived with his brother to identify it. That was the camera phone girl I presume because Sherlock said that it was her (without explaining who was “her”) and he looked really... Hannah ? Are you alright ?

\- I am alright, Molly, I think I just need air. I've been inside too long... 

And with that Hannah pitifully ran away, leaving a confused Molly.   
Poor sweet Molly, how could she even guess what was on her friend's mind ? 

Out in the hall, she felt a tad better. Her head had stopped twirling. She needed to make her mind for the rest of the situation. What to do with the Holmes Boys ? How to deal with... well, everything ? She couldn't stay with Mycroft Holmes for the duration. She would rather die than give him the piece of information that would be very valuable to him, surely, but would meant doom to them all... Mycroft and her were likely to tear each other apart, eventually... The thought of her fighting with the chubby politician was comical. They were already screaming crazy at each other at their worst... She smiled, thinking of that. She wondered why it made her smile...  
Then a creepy feeling ran under her skin. There was no cold air but she could feel the rampant cold all over her, as if she was suddenly naked. Then she knew he was here, she didn't even have to turn around to know. She could feel him, wherever he could be. No matter how far away.   
She heard the footsteps before he even talked, before the mellowing words could be uttered. She remained as still as a statue. One move and it could go very wrong. 

“Miss me, pet ?”

***

Mycroft kept checking at his pocket watch. And each time he looked he only got angrier. 

Where was she ? Where the hell was she, again ? Damn that girl, as if Mycroft didn't have enough on his plate ! She had told him she would be there for dinner... There was absolutely no reason for her to be so late, no last-call case, no incident... Mycroft made sure of that. He even tried to locate her phone but apparently she had left it in the limo which was parked near St Bart's. How could she do something that stupid ? Mycroft's instincts were telling him to know her whereabouts at once, that something was wrong...

He tried to ignore the weird twist in his guts. He strangely remembered it was the same twist he endured when he discovered that a seventeen year old Sherlock had developed an habit.   
He was waiting for news from Andrea and her own efficient network. She was his last resort. If she didn't find anything...

A heard a tiny chime. His phone. Andrea at last.   
Andrea it was. “Package heading back home. Ten minutes.” Hannah was safe and sound and coming home. He surprised himself by breathing heavily. He hadn't noticed he was holding back his breath. Another chime, still Andrea.   
“Package making weird face. Strange attitude. Investigate ?”  
Mycroft pondered those enigmatic words. He then typed “Will do personally. Thank you.” He was annoyed. What a bore. As if Sherlock wasn't enough, he had now to attend the problems of some silly girl...  
He was still mentally dwelling and grumbling about the woman when she finally appeared on the threshold. 

“Finally ! If you had had a minimum amount of breeding, you would have thought of telling me...”

He never finished his phrase. He was suddenly attacked by shaking arms twirling around him and holding him like firm ropes. He would have jolted and freed himself brutally if those arms weren't abnormally shuddering with an unusual force.  
He couldn't see her face, only her dark golden brown locks. She was hiding herself against his chest. The surprising intimacy was shockingly paralyzing to Mycroft. Furthermore Hannah's body felt cold... As if it was still the middle of winter outside and not the beginning of spring. He would have rejected her with indignation, not so long ago. Now he just put his arms around her, waiting for her to calm down.   
She never did. She ran away from him to lock herself in her room and never came down for the rest of the evening.   
Mycroft chose to keep on with his own agenda and then to go to bed, not without considering trying to knock on her door, to see what was the matter... But he ultimately decided to wait until morning.   
In the night, a terrible scream tore him from his dreamless sleep. 

“Beast ! You Beast ! You monster !!”


	18. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, ladies and gentlemen, action and romance is on its way ! Thank you for your patience !

It had started with the screaming at night. Incoherent, terrible things...  
Mycroft couldn't comprehend who she was yelling at with such horror. Then at dawn, she didn't make out of bed. Mycroft called his day off and sent for John. Hannah was delirious and feverish. John couldn't guess what was wrong with her. Looked like a terrible breakdown along with a bad bout of cold. He did his best and Hannah managed to calm down thanks to his prescriptions. But John couldn't be fooled. He guessed something bad had happened. He left nonetheless. John was an intelligent man who knew when not to question. 

Mycroft was left with a half-conscious woman who muttered in her sleep. The word “monster” came repeatedly. Mycroft tried to relieve her fever with a wet cloth but it wasn't doing much good. At one point, her nightgown was soaked by her sweat. It could make things worse. He called Mrs. Padmore and a maid so they could change the beddings and the moist nightshirt. While the maid was attending the bed, Mycroft and Mrs. P. were handling a dazed Hannah. Mycroft was holding her straight while the governess was undressing her and that was when they saw it. 

On Hannah's chest, near to her right shoulder, the letter “M” had been crudely carved.

It wasn't tattooed. It had been actually cut with a knife.  
The letter appeared pink on the white skin and looked like Hannah's scars on her face. It had started rather neatly but maybe Hannah had flinched with pain and the hand holding the knife had been disturbed in its path. The other half of the “M” was uneven and deeper, as if the one inflicting it on Hannah had made a last vicious slicing to provoke pain and subdue her, or punish her... That kind of carving must be hurtful if not made under anesthesia.   
Mycroft knew that such marks of ownership sometimes occurred in BDSM relationships. He actually knew a member of the House of Lords, a baron actually, who was in that kind of love affair with a close relative of the Prime Minister. They both had their initials carved on the inside of their thighs as a sign of mutual love and belonging. Mycroft would have thought that a little cute, though childish, if those two men were not publicly renowned for their homophobic positions. 

Mycroft had a thousand questions running through his head. This letter reminded him of Nathaniel Hawthorne's novel, “the Scartlet Letter”, set in quaker-time young America. An adulterous woman who had a child by her lover was condemned to wear a scarlet letter “A” on her dress until she named the sinful father (actually the respectable priest of the community). She refused to talk. Out of guilt, the remorseful reverend had carved this same letter “A” on his chest with a knife as punishment.  
Was it related ? Was Hannah marked by some brutal lover to chastise her ? Was she in a sub/dom relationship and had her dom wanted her to remember who she belonged to ? But then why the letter “M” ? Mycroft felt a terrible chill. He had a hint that it must be the dom's initial. It could be “M” for … 

He had to fight a brutal need to throw up.   
He never vomited. Never. Not even as a baby, according to their mother, contrary to Sherlock who had troubles eating right out of the womb.   
His mind couldn't accept the logical conclusion his brain was telling him. 

Hannah used to be or, probably, still was Moriarty's lover. 

Meaning that Moriarty was more likely the baby's...

He had a horrible gut feeling that it was just that. There were too many coincidences. And, as Mycroft used to say, the universe is not that lazy. Of course, he had no proof. It might be too far-fetched.   
But right now, his whole being was literally screaming it, ascertain it as truth whether he liked it or not.  
That damned letter was flashing in his mind. A gigantic “M” which ends looked like monstrous columns ready to crash them all down...

Hannah must have felt comforter after being changed, for she was now peacefully sleeping at last. Her face was relaxed and the scars seemed to fade a bit. Mycroft never minded her disfigurement. Partly because he had seen worse. Soldiers in such a state that surgery could not help them, agents badly burned with almost no features left... Also partly because he thought it suited her, her personality and strength. Her “I've-seen-hell-and-came-back-so-you-are-not-impressing-me” attitude he couldn't prevent himself to like.  
To him she had the look of Medusa, the mythological monster that turned the heroes into stone if they looked at her in the eyes. The eyes of life and death, that was how he saw her. And indeed, she was like Medusa. Mycroft just hoped he wasn't Perseus, the hero that finally vanquished Medusa and cut her head. 

Hannah sighed in her sleep and turned around. How could she look so innocent and be so deceitful in the same time ? In this, she resembled her sister. That saucy mixture of flirt, seduction and treachery. He never admitted to himself that he had been briefly attracted to the Woman. It was hard not to be, even for Mycroft, the Ice Man. She was the epitome of the femme fatale.   
But it was nothing compared to what he felt towards Hannah. It was deeper, darker... There was times, when they were screaming at each other like crazy cats, he felt the urge to grab her and kiss her. And one particular rough time, he had to fight the urge to drag her into his bedroom...   
He didn't know why at the time. It seemed so silly. Mycroft had lost interest in the matter of feelings long ago, not to mention those of the flesh... No trauma nor sad story behind his emotional drought. It was simply useless hassle and it bored him to death.   
And now... He might, just might, have fallen for the wrong person. 

Because the very idea of … of THIS MAN, this man who almost ruined and killed Sherlock (and subsequently John and Mycroft himself)... His HANDS on Hannah, his MOUTH on Hannah's, his...   
He fought another surge of bile. He had to focus on the present and not go down this slippery path. 

As he was musing, Hannah started to fuss and to wake up slowly. Mycroft helped her to stand on the pillows. She was drowsy and it took her some seconds to realize she was awake and that Mycroft was here. 

“What time is it ? 

Her voice was blurry with remaining sleep. 

\- It is early afternoon. You have been sick all night and morning. I told your department you'll have your day. Do not move (she was fretting), you've been very weak...

She looked at him. Her eyes lost and her expression confused. 

\- I was... I was..., she blabbed.

She couldn't end her phrase. Her eyes literally flooded and she buried her face in the beddings, next to Mycroft's knees. He gently held her, telling her to calm down, that everything was all right... he noticed that that was their closest gesture to one another. But Hannah tried to stand up, miserably. 

\- No, Mycroft... Nothing is right. It was never right in the first place and it never will be !

She finally broke down. As if she had held back for ages. Mycroft pulled her to him, holding her face to his chest and resting his chin on her head. 

\- Old girl, old darling... It will. Calm yourself down, old girl. Whatever might have happened to you, believe me, I might have dealt with much worse. Mending things and finding ways out of trouble are my line of work, darling, and I will help you. I think I already know some things...

She raised her head like a jack-in-the-box and looked at him as if he had grown another head. 

\- What do you mean ?, she yelled, What do you know ?

Mycroft sighed. 

\- Moriarty contacted you at the morgue, am I right ? 

She gave him an astonished look but then stared at her hands, resigned. Mycroft took it as a yes and continued. 

\- And he contacted you because... You are his lover. Maybe not his accomplice, but you have an affair with him... Or had an affair, I don't know, but...

Then Mycroft stopped, out of shock for the horrible expression Hannah was brutally displaying. A mixture of rage, anger, horror and indignation. Mycroft considered running for his life for this was the face of destruction. And he had no idea why she was making it, was he not just telling the truth ? She bared her teeth and hissed venomously. 

\- What did you say ? 

She then brutally rejected Mycroft. It was such a violent move it almost took Mycroft's breath away. 

\- HE IS NOT MY LOVER !! She screamed at the top of her lungs. THIS FOUL PIECE OF SHITE IS CERTAINLY NOT MY FUCKING LOVER !!! I HATE THE BASTARD'S REPULSIVE SHITTY GUTS TILL KINGDOM COME !!!


	19. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last explanation chapter !

Mycroft had to digest the screams and what they entailed. 

In the same time, he had the confirmation of his worst fears and the relief of it. It was a little too much.   
As if this last piece of news had cost her her last strength, she crumbled onto the bedding. Mycroft had to pull her up, her head in his lap. Her hair was now a sweaty mess. Her valid eye and face were red. But there were no sound nor tears any longer. Simply a neutral, tired expression. She let her hands go limp on his thighs. It seemed that the force that was holding her up until now was definitely gone. 

Mycroft was slowly stroking the damp curls. A gesture he used to make a long time ago. When Sherlock was five and had bad bouts of fever that left him boneless. He couldn't help noticing the similarities between Hannah and Sherlock. Same stubbornness, same cleverness, but different ways to handle stress and emotions. Stony, unreadable faces and reactions (except when under the use of ungodly products) for Sherlock and bursts of anger or despair for Hannah.   
Maybe not so different reactions after all... Mycroft knew out of experience that Sherlock could also be subjected to bouts of hopeless rage.

They both remained silent for a long time. Mycroft knew that the more he was patient, waiting for her to talk first, the more he would be able to catch pieces of information, anything she could tell. He knew that her barriers had finally crumbled after months of fight and right now, he just had to wait for the denouement.   
Hannah sighed and settled her head. She took a deep breath. 

“He had something I wanted. At least he had the means to have it. I wanted to pay him. He wanted something else...”

She sniffed. Mycroft waited as still as a deer hunter. 

“End of the story.” 

Mycroft jumped. That was ALL ?!

“Yes, that is all, doofus.” She sneered. It was as if she could read his thoughts. “And you are a fool if you think you are going to know more.”

Mycroft sighed. She did like it the hard way, apparently. 

“As you wish. But let me remind you the current situation : we are under national threat and said national threat is either a ghost or a living dead which happens to be a mass murderer, a criminal mastermind AND a rapist. I am sorry, old girl, but personal situations have to be set aside.”

She let her hand fell on the bedding as a gesture of surrender and heaved. 

“Why am I not even surprised you said that ?”  
“You know me well by now” He smiled saying that. 

She rubbed her teary face on his thigh. Once again, Mycroft didn't even mind the ruin of his costly trousers. This was getting odder by the minute. Hopefully no one was seeing this scene, the Ice Man tenderly comforting a damaged damsel in distress and, for once, not faking concern...  
Hannah sighed and seemed to prepare herself for a coming blow. 

“You know Irene is alive, right ?”

He gulped. Here came troubles. 

“Old girl...”  
“Of course you do. And you know that she had been wandering across the globe, at least, as long as she still had the money for it. You ruined her principal source of income, you know ?”  
“Darling...”  
“I suppose she deserved it... But anyway, she wanted to come back home after a while, before her fundings disappeared. She tried everything but it was impossible to come back incognito... I had to find a way...”  
“SWEETHEART !”

Hannah jumped. Mycroft bit his tongue. He didn't mean to scream. And to scream endearments as well...

“Darling, Irene is dead.” He took his serious definite tone. “She is dead. She has been murdered in Karachi. I have proof... I know I spread the news that she was under witness protection program but... Sweetheart, I'm so sorry...”

Hannah kept a still face and then did the most amazing thing.   
She burst out laughing.   
She laughed until there were new tears in her face and coughed. Mycroft started to think it was now too much and that she had lost her mind. 

“Oh, luv ! If she is dead, then it is her clone I met when I went back to Oxford last saturday ! She was well and kicking and she wasn't a doppelgänger ! I know my big sister well !”

Mycroft gasped. It was impossible. Hannah simply smiled. 

“Remember your brother ? Sleuth genius ? He went to Pakistan and saved her. Simple as that. She told me.”

Mycroft groaned and buried his face in his hands. He was seriously going to KILL Sherlock once all this mess is over.


	20. CHAPTER NINETEEN

Once Hannah had settled down from her laughing fit, her face became grave once more.   
“Sure you want to hear the rest ? It is ugly. So ugly I wanted to keep it to myself and never let anyone know...” She bowed her head “Especially not Niri...”  
Mycroft's ears perked up. “Niri ?”  
Hannah chuckled. “I mean Irene. That's how I used to call her as a child.”  
Mycroft smiled and put a hand to Hannah's hair, without even realizing it.   
“I need to know everything and you know that...”  
He caressed them. They were softer than Sherlock's as a child.   
“Well. You asked for it.”  
Her tone was different. More mature, more neutral, without any of her usual spark of life, sorrow or humor. It was as if she was telling the story of someone else. 

“I had messages from Niri. Coded, hidden messages, of course, to let me know she was alright but... They were fewer and fewer and I knew she was in trouble. She was moving very fast but, anytime soon, she wouldn't be able to do so. Sherlock had saved her once but she could run out of luck any time. I had to find a solution.”  
She wiped her nose, casually.  
“ 'HE' wasn't so hard to find at that time. Irene told me how she was put in contact with him. There is a private network which...Well, you know...”  
Mycroft nodded to show he knew.   
“So, I met 'HIM' and I didn't like him, of course. All yadda-yadda-yadda and how my sister was so dumb she let herself being clouded by sentiments, and how Sherlock was so stupid to even care about her, and how about YOU were so easily fooled and blah, blah, blah... He just couldn't stop, Mycroft.”  
Mycroft winced a little. That was the first she even called him by his real name. It was always “Mr. Holmes”, or “Dumbass” or simply “you” among other gracious things...  
He didn't like the fact it started in a conversation about the madman.   
“Between you and me...” She paused. “I think he was jealous of her. I mean, jealous of her and Sherlock. I think he can't stand not being the most important in Sherlock's life. He already despised John but he hated him in the same time, for being Sherlock's friend. As if... As if he was in love with...” She stopped. “I am not going to talk about that...”  
Mycroft nodded in assent. He didn't want to know about Moriarty's feelings concerning Sherlock either.  
“So,” She pursued “he talked about his plans to get my sister back in England safe and sound, under a new identity and such that no one would ever guess it was her. I spare you the details but it seemed clever. At least, it was better than nothing at all...” She took a deep breath.  
“And once he had finished he asked me what I could give him in exchange...”  
She gulped again, she kept looking at the ground. Mycroft's steady glance seemed too much for her.   
“I told him we had money left from my sister's previous activities. He snorted and told him money was incredibly boring to him... That he knew I could provide him something else...”  
She stopped once more. It seemed too much for her. Mycroft gave an encouraging caress on her head to help her go on.  
“I don't know how he knew that. That I was... intact. My face didn't make me very popular so I guess... He guessed, sort of...”  
She breathed heavily.  
“I think he didn't make it that much terrible. That he made an effort but... Anyway, I wasn't even in my head at that time. Like I was floating the whole time. Didn't want to... Can't remember...”  
She was confused. Her words were falling from her mouth but they didn't make any sense to her. Only Mycroft's hands on her hair seemed real at that point...  
“I saw him, Mycroft.”  
Mycroft jumped. What was she talking about ?   
“I saw him at St Bart's. That's him for sure. I don't know how but he is alive, Mycroft ! And he wants me back !”


	21. CHAPTER TWENTY

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience !

I was waiting for Sherlock to deign explaining further but once again, he wanted to play smarter-than-thou… Had we had more time, I would have let him beg but we had none.   
“Sherlock, she is gone and away...” And I pray that you never guess that she is, in fact, truly and well dead, I thought in the same time. “How could she be the cause of anything ? If she steps out of her witness program, she is dead.”  
And here, the mighty sleuth took a deep breath and prepared himself as if he was going to explain something very difficult to a slightly retarded child.   
“Enough with the pretense, John. I know you lied to me when you said she was in a witness program. I know it was Mycroft who told you to lie. Actually, you two think she is dead.”

Oh, no... That was worse than I thought. 

“Sherlock, I...”  
“But...” He cut me. “What you two don't know is that I have been to Pakistan to get her out. Luckily, she was about to be beheaded and...”  
“You WHAT ?!?”  
He looked at me as if I had grown a second head. Which I wouldn't be surprised if I had knowing my total and utter bewilderment at what he had just said. For one tiny second I hoped he was simply fooling me but Sherlock never jested, not even for harmless fun. He is the most serious person in the world, totally impermeable to irony.   
“I saved her, John, of course ! She has always been a perfect challenge, despite the fact that she used that stupid password on her phone. The world would be even more boring without her in it... I knew nothing of her sister before and, yet...”  
I have to say that the rest of his babbling had no effect on me. The only thing rolling and rolling in my mind was that we had been fooled once again by detective-asshole-extraordinaire.   
The need to hit something or someone was tremendous but I managed to maintain an unholy self-control... I was hearing him but not really listening to him.   
“Yet, knowing the Woman, I guessed that life in exile has its limits. So, out of boredom or another reason, she must have contacted her sister. But what could a simple yarder do on her own ? Irene Adler could not go to me because she knew Mycroft would hear of it at once. And Mycroft is still adamant that she is dead. He would have been capable of locking her up and interrogate her the minute she set foot on our soil...”  
There followed a thorough and uninteresting explanation of the reasons why Irene used her own sister as a go-between for her and the maddest criminal who was then very well alive, since it was before his apparent suicide. According to Sherlock, Irene was more afraid of Mycroft than of Moriarty. Sure, that would have pleased the G-Man, but anyhow...  
“... Yet something happened between Hannah and Moriarty... He respected his share of the bargain and Irene came back... But... I don't know yet. I am positive Ronder is hiding something. I can't put my finger on it...”  
I sighed. There were thousands of reasons why Hannah would fear Moriarty. I couldn't yet perceive for the life of me why she would be the reason of Moriarty's returning from the dead. She would be a mighty woman if she ever did !  
“Not only Hannah, John...” I jumped, once again it was as if he had read my thoughts. “Hannah WITH Mycroft... Now, why the association of Hannah and Mycroft would anger him ? Well, if it IS really him back from the dead...”  
Even in my stupor I had to admit I didn't see the point either...  
“Hannah, Mycroft, Moriarty.... They're the answer, John, but I can't trace the figures yet...”  
Welcome to the club.   
“That's why it is time for her to come out. No pun intended...”  
And he swiftly took his phone and started dialing. I couldn't believe my eyes. I knew right away who he was calling. I couldn't believe it. He put the phone to his ear.  
“Hullo ? Miss Adler ?”

****

Mycroft held her head with both his hands. He realized she had a very small skull, he wondered why he was thinking something so inappropriate right now.   
“Darling, we must yet to discover whether he is still alive or really dead and in both cases we need to know who was it you saw...” She tried to protest but he shushed her. “And then, my dear, I do not mean to sound rude, but Moriarty is not the sentimental type. Unless you have something of interest to him...”  
“I had his child.”  
Mycroft paled.   
“And he doesn't know I don't have it anymore.”  
Mycroft breathed heavily.   
“Have you told him ?”  
Hannah bent her head.   
“No. I ran before he truly spoke... I was scared.”  
Mycroft would hardly blame her. Yet, he wondered who was it she really saw.   
“Hannah, are you sure that was him ? That it wasn't someone pretending to be him ?”  
“I am sure.”  
Mycroft couldn't help but remark that she had hesitated for one tiny second. He decided that he won't press the matter any further and that he would contact Sherlock first thing in the morning. He caressed her cheek.   
“Do you want me to stay in your room, tonight ?”  
She gave him a long look and silently nodded.


	22. CHAPTER 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in the game !

Mycroft's assistant, The-Woman-That-Calls-Herself-Anthea, went to fetch Irene Adler in person. It appeared, after Sherlock's call, that she was hiding in Oxford, in the Adlers' childhood home they had kept over the years. Irene had been hiding there the whole time. As Sherlock often says, when you look for someone, look the closest to home. 

She had not changed much. Maybe a little paler and less fashionable clothes and hair. She had to keep a low profile after all...Yet, the same arrogant cat-like green eyes (that's when I realized that Hannah had the same...) and thin elegant and sarcastic smile, the kind that told you that any man was on the menu for her.   
“It has been a while, Mister Holmes...”  
The gall of her... She hadn't changed finally. And the weird light in Sherlock's eyes when she looked at him was back again.   
And here we are for new troubles, I thought. Those two together are no good.  
Yet, they deserved each other in a certain way. 

Sherlock updated the Woman on the latest events. She knew about Moriarty, of course, but she couldn't see how her sister and him could be related.   
“She did made the transaction for me but she said nothing about it. I had left her enough money to make the deal. More than enough.”  
Sherlock remained silent.   
“ But was the money spent ?” He slowly said.   
She looked at him in a weird way. First, a bit amused, then, less amused and then a bit worried. She put her cell phone out of her pocket. Not the infamous one which became her doom, a new one, less sophisticated but enough for her to make a quick check on her personal finances. She looked at Sherlock, clearly puzzled.  
“It's still there.” She murmured. “I don't understand...”  
We looked at Sherlock. He had a somber look on his face. “So it is not spent but, still, Moriarty kept his share of the bargain. You should have thought about it. It is not money he's after... He doesn't care at all about money...”  
“So, what does he care about ?” I asked. “What could Hannah provide for him instead ?”  
Sherlock remained silent for a while.   
“What Moriarty craves is entertainment, novelty... Not to be bored in short, and money is boring to him. She must have had something to exchange that thrilled him somehow...”  
“But what ?” Irene demanded, looking nervous.   
I was under the impression that her and Sherlock had an idea and they didn't want to think about it...

****  
They had let the hours pass. They hadn't slept much. They waited for dawn to come, without moving or talking.   
Nothing had happened. Mycroft was not stupid. She was not fit for... something else. And as for him, the discovery of his own feeling was an embarrassment. They were a burden for him, each time he had had interest in someone, it always ended badly. Furthermore, how would he know if those feelings were reciprocated ?   
Besides, the situation wasn't really fitting anyway.   
Hannah was gently breathing. She had finally gave up to slumber. Mycroft was thinking very fast. What happened to Hannah ? Who has she seen ? Was it really Moriarty ? In that case and that was the million dollar question, HOW did he survived ?   
Mycroft had the feeling that as long as he didn't found out the answer, Sherlock, John, Hannah, everyone including himself would be in dreadful danger. 

****  
Sherlock and Irene had been making researches and assumptions which I didn't entirely understand only to remain at the same point. The fate of James Moriarty.   
They had forgotten my existence, as well as everything else around them. They had this infuriating attitude since day one. Oh, well...  
I wasn't paying attention any more when Irene's voice sounded surprised and woke me up.   
“My SISTER ? At your brother's ?! What in the name of earth would she be doing there ?!”  
“Don't ask me...” Grumbled Sherlock in a distracted voice. “Mere trivia...”  
“No it's NOT 'mere trivia', Mister Holmes !” Irene snatched the file Sherloc was studying from his hands to demand his attention. “My little sister is living with the most powerful man in all the United Kingdom, doing god knows what and without me having any knowledge of it ! What do you know about it ?”  
Sherlock made and exasperated scoff. “I don't know and I don't care ! If she has so little taste in choosing my BROTHER...” He made a comical disgusted grimace. “...as a paramour, it only concerns her lack of common sense. I don't want to see my brother... Or even think ! Yuck !”  
He stuck his tongue out like a five year old that tasted a sour lemon. I would have laughed if I didn't catch Irene's expression.   
I am no sleuth but I have some human understanding. And I knew by seeing her face that Irene Adler was already processing this piece of news. She was already calculating the profit that could be made out of it.   
It couldn't be helped. That was the way she was.   
I guess that people who had bad beginnings are too scared to live it again to stop weighing the gains that can be made out of some particular situation...

Yet, a little while after, they were still at the same point... And I was bored to my wits. I was wondering if Mary and the baby were okay and whether I should go home...  
The two other idiots were still in their wonderland when I heard a commotion downstairs and Mrs. Hudson's voice that forbade someone else to come.   
Sherlock, Irene and I raised our heads and in barged “Alias Anthea” with Mrs. H. tagging along. She didn't look her usual cool, sophisticated self. Her hairdo was slightly undone and she had been running or something because she seemed out of breath. I wasn't even sure it was her until I heard her voice.   
“Mr. Holmes, we have a situation.” She panted to Sherlock. “ I cannot find your brother, nor Miss Ronder. I don't know where they are and they've been missing the whole day.”


	23. CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading !

When Anthea had finished, I knew on the look on Sherlock's face that it was deadly serious. 

Mycroft and Hannah were not out there for an escapade. If Anthea was worried, if Sherlock looked angst-ish, there was trouble ahead. Big trouble.  
And there was. Sherlock had started all his network, made some calls and used his computer at a frantic pace but as hours passed and as Miss Adler's face was beginning to blanch in a ghastly way though she remained perfectly calm and self-composed, I knew the situation was extremely difficult to say the least. 

When I managed to rip one word out of Sherlock, he told me that the last time anyone had spotted them they were in the house together. Yet no one had seen them left. I wanted to drop a name but I can discern when Sherlock needs total silence to think. I knew him long enough for that. But this name with its imposing M at the beginning and the stirring sound at the end of its “y” that made you smile as if you had eaten a sour lemon was invading our space.   
“No, John. It can't be Moriarty.”  
Sherlock's dark voice sounded like knell. And it scared me quite as much. How could he have guessed what was on my mind is something that always bothered me.   
“How could you … ? Oh, forget it...”  
“It wasn't Moriarty, John. I know that only now. It took me all this time to discover it...”  
“If not Moriarty, then who ?” I admit I was totally baffled and his mumblings didn't help to ease me in the dark. Not unusual mind you, but I was so tensed it made me sick.   
Sherlock jolted as if waking up.   
“Moriarty must have made a move but why my brother and not... ?”  
Now, that did it.   
“Sherlock, you just said Moriarty was not involved in your brother's disappearance and now you say he is ?!”

Sherlock looked at me. That faraway look that told me he was either back on drugs (even when I kept my watch closely on him and his habits, bloody infuriating fool...) or back from his mind palace and not yet quite awake. It was less dangerous than drug use but it was annoying just the same.   
“Yes, John he is not. Never was, never has been...”  
Sherlock remarked I was starting to lose patience.   
“Because there never was any Moriarty, John. We've been fooled all along. I have been a fool...”  
To say I was astonished is an understatement. Yet it made perfect sense since Moriarty was well and truly shot and buried.  
“So, if he's not back from the dead then who was it ?”  
Sherlock gave me AGAIN his condescending look as if he was in front of a very dumb little kid. One of these days, I'll throttle him for that...  
“John, there is no Moriarty. There never was ANY Moriarty. You cannot kill what doesn't exist and it cannot be dead nor alive...”  
I swear I thought I was dreaming when I heard him say that.   
“Moriarty never existed, John. I should have known since the Rich Brook incident. We have been fooled all along by a construction of the mind...”

****  
This scene I haven't witnessed. As we were talking about “constructions of the mind”, as Sherlock was hammering my poor brain with what I thought then was craziness, we never knew that, at the same time, Mycroft and Hannah had managed to go back to Mycroft's mansion, 48 hours after they had disappeared, in ways that we would discover only later.   
The rest is also “a construction of my mind.” I never knew in which state they came back but I am sure both stripped naked to go into one of Mycroft's gargantuan steamy tub from one of his numerous bathrooms to clean themselves from the dirt on their souls. Barely managing to do it.

I can only picture them in Mycroft's priceless bed, covered in Mycroft's velvety gowns, its riches only enhancing their misery, cuddling and hugging each other chastely, trying to get warm like two birds lost in the cold.


	24. CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

48 hours almost later, we had still no news of Mycroft and Hannah and we were frantic. 

Sherlock had buried himself in a dreadful silence which was worse than everything he ever done and there is no need to describe Irene and Anthea's state. They were out of their wits, though they carefully hid it and remained as calm as an iceberg.   
This unbearable waiting was broken by a bip from Anthea's cell that made us jump.   
Anthea looked at it, seeming both astonished and relieved.   
“They're back ! They're in the house, the alarm located them only now !”  
Although Irene and Anthea slightly got more colors on their cheeks hearing the grand news and let a discreet sigh of relief escape their elegantly painted lips, Sherlock didn't have one tremor of change in his mood. He looked surprised and even more displeased...  
Maybe scared even... That wasn't a good sign. 

We rushed to Mycroft's mansion. For some reason, he wasn't answering any of our calls. We wouldn't be reassured until we saw both of them safe.   
The mansion was eerily still. Usually there was always a gardener, a bodyguard, a maid, somewhere and there, there was nothing. It was as if all were gone and left everything behind.   
Sherlock banged on the door. I tried to stop him but too late. Nothing and no one answered. He banged again and I had to slap his arm to make him stop. Anthea called out loud, “Sir ?”, but she was not much successful. We looked at each other, Anthea, Irene, Sherlock and I. We were all considering forcing the door but we had no idea what the consequences would be afterwards.   
Mycroft could be highly lethal with people who dared trespass his threshold and his intimacy. 

Then Irene took charge. She stepped near the door and laid her hands on it.   
“Piglet ! Nana !” She screamed. “It's Niri ! Let me in !!”  
I had no time to wonder who the hell were 'Piglet' and 'Nana.' Almost instantly, the door grated and opened. I perceived a pale face with big eyes, one dark, the other almost white. I barely recognized Hannah Ronder in this ghostly figure.   
“Niri ?” She whispered. She was barely audible. She tried a very weak smile.   
“It's me, Piglet. Please, we need to talk. Where is Mr. Holmes ?” Irene tried to see beyond Hannah's shoulder, looking for Mycroft.   
She wasn't disappointed. A man in a beautiful red velvet nightgown appeared behind Hannah and opened the door wide. It took me a moment to realize it was Mycroft. His auburn hair I always saw neat and tidily combed looked like they had been bombed. He looked like a crazy old man with dark circles behind his eyes and his pupils were blown wide. Had I not been in such a shock, seeing how bad he looked, I would have suspected him being drugged. Just like his brother.   
“Brother, it is unlikely of you to bother me at such an hour...”   
The sound of his voice. It was Mycroft and not Mycroft. A Mycroft arisen from the dead and speaking from the tomb. A Mycroft trying to sound normal and only appearing ghastly. Next to Mycroft, the woman in the costly lace nightgown looked more like a scared little girl than the highly capable police officer I knew. 

Something terrible had happened to them both.

Sherlock gave Mycroft a very suspicious glance. “It is four pm, brother dear. It is hardly an inappropriate hour and, by the way, we've been looking for you two for two days !” His voice has arisen in anger and frustration. I never heard him talk like that. Mycroft looked at him as if he was about to slap him or to faint, or both. “Care to tell me, your PA and Miss Adler what in heaven's name you two have been doing ?”  
Mycroft bent his head low as if this confrontation was tearing his last forces.   
“Not now, Sherlock, please... We will see you all, later.”  
Hannah grabbed his shoulder and I saw the same exhaustion in her own eyes. She turned to her sister as if it was the hardest thing to do.   
“Niri, I am very glad to see you but Mycroft and I are very tired...” She did a very bad imitation of a flirty smile. “We spent the day in bed, so no need to worry...”  
In seconds Irene looked like the roof had fallen on her head while Sherlock went red as a tomato from anger and opened an indignant mouth, likely to insult them both or worse but an authoritarian hand raised by Mycroft made him shut up.   
“We said later, brother... So... Laters.”   
And on this, he closed the door. Leaving us high and dry. 

Irene Adler was astonished but in the same time I perceived the calculating glimmer in her eyes. She was drawing plans and conclusions from this new piece of information. Mycroft and Hannah's relationship. During those times she appeared as if she was Sherlock's twin. 

And Sherlock had his eyes bulging out of his face with a terrible rage Anthea and Irene were too absorbed to notice, but, knowing the man, I did. A look of pure, unfiltered rage.   
I thought that for the second time, and for reasons I couldn't decipher, he was ready to kill Mycroft.


	25. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

We had to leave. We had a pretty good idea that they were not going to open the door, even if we hammered it with our fists and tried to force it open. Anthea remained behind and called her own private limousine without any other words. I guess she had her own problems to handle about Mycroft.   
That left me, Miss Adler and Sherlock back to Baker Street. There wasn't much to do. During the travel by cab home, Irene Adler was talking in a very angry tone and, as I was trying to soothe her, I kept an eye on my own sleuth and his stormy mood. He wasn't saying a word. Knowing him, it was a bad thing. A very bad one. 

I might have been the only one not to be that much worried. On the medical side, they didn't look good but it was a similar state to what I used to look like during my army times when we had the custom to get ourselves drunk to death while on leave, me and the boys. We paid it dearly the following morning, especially when the Drill Sergeant gave us a piece of his mind. To me, Mycroft and Hannah had a little too much to drink at one of those parties Mycroft attended or gave. I knew that she sometimes played the hostess part, to everyone's amazement. A peculiar hostess with a half-damaged face.   
Maybe some particularly warm action between them occurred in the end. Or, even more plausible, little romantic me pictured them both on their own investigation with better results than we had, Sherlock and I. They had lost a baby. They did act as if they were in relationship, so was it so incredible to think that they actually were lovers and on their own search to soothe their mutual grief ? Now, they had woken up, confused and probably embarrassed in front of their siblings. I thought that the next days would be also confusing for Sherlock and the Woman. I realized that I had no idea if Irene knew about the lost baby.   
Anyway, their own brother and sister... Eloping together without even telling them... The Woman must be vexed and Sherlock was clearly enraged not to have foreseen it. That was why he was so angry and mute. He couldn't stand the idea of not being the center of his brother's life, after all...

Sherlock is right. I can be extraordinarily stupid sometimes. 

****

A couple of days passed and we had not advanced a step further.  
Mycroft and Hannah were living as if under a siege. Greg was literally ripping what was left of his hair off. Hannah was on temporary leave, a favor rarely granted for female officers that weren't sick, under PTSD or about to give birth.   
I heard repeated texts from Sherlock's phone that remained unanswered. I guessed that was the Woman trying to get answers from our national sleuth. Said sleuth never texted back and remained gloomy and silent. This time it was a very heavy silence. Even Mrs. Hudson was at a loss.   
Hannah had not yet resurfaced, neither did Mycroft. I heard through the grapevine that he was not even talking to his gorgeous PA. His own landlady, the Victorian hag with a mouth like a cobweb and whose name I couldn't remember, had to leave for an unknown period.   
When Sherlock was in a better mood, which was becoming quite rare, he fed me little pieces of information about Mycroft. People at his “work” were also wondering why he was not present anymore... It seemed to anger Sherlock even more. The thing was, even Sherlock acknowledged that Mycroft was indispensable to the Kingdom's safety, if not the wolrd's.   
And if he was still adrift...

****

Some days later, we had the groundbreaking official news.   
Mycroft and Hannah were publicly engaged.   
We were having lunch with Sherlock when he saw the text. I thought he would choke on his toast.


	26. CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

They had remained locked up in the mansion. Mycroft had given an impromptu vacation to all the servants, including Mrs. Padmore. She wasn't pleased but she was probably the only person (with Sherlock of course) to be able to guess what had happened to them both. IF Sherlock hadn't guessed by now. So, she had to go anyway and Sherlock had to stay away until further notice... Mycroft needed space to pull the pieces back together. He couldn't even bare the very thought of anyone even imagining what they had to do to go home  
Now they were supposed to be safe except that they didn't. He didn't even know if they ever would again...  
But they would have their revenge. He made this special promise to himself... and to Hannah.   
All of them would pay. It was a given. 

Mycroft helped himself to some of his most precious whiskey. He started pouring another for Hannah but thought otherwise. She loathed alcohol. It reminded her of her father, the drunkard that mutilated her and almost killed her mother and sister. He put down the glasses. He was going to start an alcohol-free period of undetermined length. Hannah would never accept to live with someone keen on that kind of addiction...  
Mycroft chuckled. There was a time, not so long ago, where he wouldn't have even cared what anyone would think about his habits. He wouldn't have even tolerated any living soul in his home...   
Nothing would ever be the same now. For good or bad.   
He went up the stairs to the main guest room that had become Hannah's own bedroom. He didn't knock and the door was open. He knew that she wouldn't mind. It was a little untidy now, Hannah had a tendency to throw her clothes everywhere, even the designers' ones that Mycroft had given her. It made him smile again, thinking how different they both were.   
They had to make it work. He had explained it to her quite clearly. Her confusion and distraught face had simply broken his heart. He was surprised to feel he still had one. But Hannah had this particularity that everything she did or said mattered to him. Though he didn't really like it, he couldn't fight it.   
She was lying on the bed, in the same peach dressing gown he liked. She hadn't left it to wear something else since they came back. This had to change. They had both to wake up and move on with the rest of the story.   
“Darling...” He murmured, sitting next to her on the bed. The lifeless form moved as if by magic. He gently touched the thigh and Hannah emerged, standing on her elbows.   
“We need to go to work, my dear...” He softly patted the thigh in encouragement. He didn't know if she would allow more than that. He was trying his luck with her.   
“I can't...” Her voice was really down. She still looked beautiful to Mycroft's eyes but her haggard appearance would scare her sister off.   
“We have to.” He tried to sound firm. “If we remain like this, it will... It will be bad.”   
She sighed. Mycroft felt like dirt. She had been through so much. She didn't deserve all of this.   
Mycroft would see to that she would get a proper revenge. For everything.   
He then dared a sort of desperate move.   
“May I give you something to fuel your courage ?”   
“Don't be cynical...” She sighed.   
He simply smiled and traced Hannah's thigh with one finger, going up until near the hip.   
“May I ?” He softly asked.   
She closed her eyes and nodded. Mycroft slowly went under the bathrobe, caressing the upper thigh, finding the spade between the legs. As gently as he could, he needed to be cautious. If he looked too hasty or too demanding, it could hurt her.   
He was confident in his way to help his partners find their pleasure, but none of those quite scarce people were as traumatized than Hannah... Nor as important.  
Yet minutes after she uttered a small sigh and looked at the ceiling in amazement. Mycroft could feel his fingers go wet. He then carefully guided Hannah to the usual bright conclusion.   
Hearing her gently moan made him feel clean again. 

****  
All of a sudden our two recluses came back to work. Hannah was again on the field, but as Greg noticed, she was slightly different. Greg was worried. She was still as efficient as ever but she sometimes seemed... mentally as far away as possible. It was disturbing. She was thinner too and eating less.   
All the signs of PTSD, but of what ?   
Sherlock heard by Anthea that Mycroft was also back as if he hadn't disappeared than hidden himself for weeks. And still no word of explanation from either parties. Irene was puzzled but she was as powerless as Sherlock apparently to make her sister talk about all this, even partially.   
Sherlock told me to give up because if Mycroft Holmes was set on keeping things secret, no one could ever make him talk. His brother was the master of secrets and even Sherlock could never crack them all. There was always one last secret lasting...

Yet we were not at the end of our surprises.   
Some weeks later, it was almost spring, we did have a piece of news that shattered our whole world.  
Sherlock received a wedding announcement.   
Mycroft was supposed to marry Hannah the following month.


	27. CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

To say that Sherlock went insane after that was an understatement. It could only equaled by Irene's cool. They had a fight about that I had to referee. She claimed that Mycroft was an excellent catch for her sister, one of the most powerful men in the government, (to this Sherlock cut by correcting her that he WAS the government but she didn't let him continue) and it was an amazing luck for a simple yard woman. To which I protested that she wasn't a “simple yard woman,” she was an outstanding officer of the yard, hardly Little Orphan Annie or Cinderella meeting prince Charming. Prince Grim-and-Gloomy, rather, I thought but not said aloud in Sherlock's presence.  
To that Sherlock scoffed and turned around, dismissing the conversation, and Irene shot me a dreadful glance. I guess I could say anything I wanted to her, against her. She would just laugh it out. But discuss her private family matters, while not being Sherlock Holmes was akin to blasphemy and death warrant for her. Anyhow, being married to someone that might be the most deadliest woman ever, I didn't care much about what Miss Adler might plan to threaten my safety. 

But I cared immensely about what was really going on between Mycroft and Hannah.

Because none of us, not even their own siblings had any idea of what was going on into their heads... Little romantic me still thought that they wanted to move on with their relationship, after the loss of their baby. They had had time for themselves and then decided to tie the knot, whatever the reason was... Dear me, how dumb I was at that moment...

****

Mycroft finally breathed seeing the night coming and the last file being set to go. He could now leave the office and go back home to Hannah. He hoped she had finished her own work and would be home, waiting for him.   
He needed that, he needed the fact that she was home waiting for him. It was the only thing that helped him to leave his bed at dawn and go on living.   
Finally relaxing in the limo, he closed his eyes and thought about the impeding matters. Soon, the pawns would move and the plan would have to be set in motion.   
The question was, would he and Hannah, not to mention all of their families and friends, would survive this ? He didn't know. 

It was dark when he arrived home. Hannah was waiting for him, her silhouette standing against the light inside. She was shivering and holding herself. He knew that something had happened the minute when she put her head on his shoulder, in utter weariness.   
“My sister phoned... You cannot marry me...” She breathed.   
“Of course I can ! We will ! We have to !” He said, holding her and looking for her eyes.   
“My sister phoned...” She looked about to burst into tears. “She congratulated me because... Because you're the most eligible bachelor or whatever...” She paused. “She thinks I'm after your money or your position ! I don't know !”   
Mycroft sighed. If only... If only Hannah was simply a gold digger. Someone looking for an easy way of life or a simple thrill of hunting down treasure and dominating powerful men as he knew her sister was... But no, Hannah was, deep to the core, someone who wanted a normal life and seemed pursued by a curse that prevented that innocent wish to be fulfilled.   
“I do not want people to think I am after your money... I won't stand it.” She almost sobbed.   
“It wouldn't matter if you did, my dear.” He softly chuckled.   
He tried a shy kiss on her brow. He never knew how far he could go with her. She had let him caress her and please her but she still had limits. Yet, she simply leaned more against him. He didn't dare to hope for her total and complete trust.   
“But I don't... I want to... I want...” She stopped. Maybe she was also unsure of what she really wanted.   
“Let them talk, my dear. We have our own plan. When all of this is over, we will be free and done with.” He said that with his usual cool tone but underneath, he hid his personal fears.   
She answered nothing for a while, just resting her head on his chest. They remained silent. He decided to make a daring move. After all, what did they have to lose ?   
“Will you sleep in my room tonight ?” He murmured.   
She said nothing for a while and then simply nodded. 

****

A few days passed in this unbearable waiting mood. I had much to do with the baby, my wife and my cabinet so I didn't have to witness Sherlock and Irene fighting like cats.   
Irene had managed to get her hands on her former house in Belgravia. It appeared that Hannah had been keeping it for her for years. I can't deny that her leaving Sherlock's apartment for her own place was a relief. The tension between those two was sometimes unbearable. Not to mention the sexual tension...

It began like a normal ordinary day when I received a text from Sherlock with his usual politeness and deference for my priorities :  
“Baker Street ASAP. SH”  
Don't you just love it ?   
Luckily, I was not angry enough or not busy enough not to answer and I took the first cab available.   
Mrs Hudson welcomed me with a pale face, streaked with abundant tears. She was sobbing so much, she simply indicated the way to the stairs, incapable of explaining what was wrong with her.   
In what used to be our former living room, stuck to his computer and as expressionless as a wax doll, Sherlock was sitting, not moving, hypnotized by what was going on on his screen. Its glow cast a grim light on his face.   
When I reached him, I saw that this was a montage of various extract of a film I thought first was a very bad porn. On a mattress, in a bare room, for what I could see in the blurriness, a naked couple was awkwardly trying to copulate. The sound was off and I couldn't hear what they could say. Except that when the woman turned her head against her partner's shoulder I recognized the scars on her face. And when the man raised his own to set a glance that seemed murderous to someone off-screen I knew who that chubby man with auburn hair, long legs and pale freckled skin was.   
I was ready to scream but the look on Sherlock's face helped me back into control.   
“It's from Moriarty.” Sherlock said with a voice that seemed to come out of the grave. “He wants a meeting.”

****

For once, Mycroft had stopped at the Diogene's club for tea and finish his current work. He was going there less and less. He had someone to go to at the end of the day, so there was no use to come there as much as he used to.   
That was where he received Andrea's text :  
“M. send the tape to S. Wants meeting.”  
Mycroft closed his eyes.  
End of truce. Time for war.


	28. CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

We had to vision this particular piece of grainy excrement numerous times just to know that we were not hallucinating. 

It was a bare room with a spartan metal bed. A simple mattress and cushions were laid on it. Nothing that could indicate any kind of particular location. The walls were bare and the camera was focused on the bed. No indication of anything whatsoever.   
The couple could have been any amateur exhibitionists with very bad taste. At first, all you could see was that the man had long legs and a chubby back. You knew that he was a red head by the sight of the freckled shoulder. His gestures were tense and uneasy. It was as if he was more trying to reassure his partner than to display a show of pornographic exploits, as it is usually expected.   
The woman was facing the man and you could only see her clenched hands resting on her partner's shoulders. When I noticed for the first time they were badly shaking, I realized that this was not porn. This had been turned with unwilling performers. This was… something I couldn't understand fully yet...  
Only when she turned her head and her scars on her brow were visible I knew the woman was Hannah. And when the man raised his head, out of the blue, to look upward to something, or someone, that was off-screen, I recognized Mycroft's particular profile.   
And the look on his face was the one of a deep, terrifying anger I never saw on him. 

That was the expression on his face that convinced me it wasn't a sextape.   
It was a recorded rape. 

After I don't know how many viewing, Sherlock stopped the video, pale like death itself. He slowly put his hands together in his familiar manner, as if praying but, as usual, putting them under his chin. I saw him do it numerous times while lost in deep thoughts but now I could see the long fingers were slightly trembling.   
“That was him, Moriarty I mean.”  
His voice went through the heavy silence and surprised me. I couldn't recognize mine when I finally asked :  
“So he is alive ?”  
Sherlock sighed. “No, he is not.” My head was about to burst. I had to channel all my strength not to punch him to the ground as I did when he had returned.   
“Sherlock, either he is alive and kicking or else...” Sherlock cut me short and raised his hand.   
“John, the Jim Moriarty I saw on the roof of Saint Bart's hospital is dead, definitively dead. His head blown and his blood on the ground.” Sherlock clenched his teeth. He put his phone out of his pocket and for the hundredth time exhibited the mysterious text : 

“Miss Me ? Liked my new little show ? See ya soon, my dear.” 

It glowed like a threat in front of my eyes.   
“This Moriarty...” Sherlock breathed. “I know nothing about.”  
I gulped with difficulty. This was too much now, even for me.   
“Sherlock... Hannah and Mycroft... He kidnapped them and then he forced them to...”  
Sherlock stood up from his chair, looking like a chained wolf ready to bite and tear and kill.   
“Do not say it, John. Do. Not.”  
I nodded. I had no desire to say aloud that this was the video of a rape. Their weird attitude after their mysterious disappearance was now crystal clear. But this nonsensical wedding ? Just as now, Mary, Molly, Donovan and of course, Irene Adler were helping Hannah to choose her dress in London's most expensive bridal shop. I remembered that all were quite enthusiastic about it except for the blushing bride that followed them like a lamb to the slaughter.   
If this wedding was a masquerade, why was Hannah participating in it ? What on earth was Mycroft intending to do ? What in hell were those two thinking ?   
Sherlock sighed and I knew that he was about to answer my thought. His magical gift for telepathy again.   
“Easy, John. They have publicly proclaimed their love to all asunder. They already pretended that the child Hannah lost was Mycroft's. So, it is a preventive strategy. This tape might have been done to muzzle down my brother and to keep Hannah under control. But now, with this marriage, it will lessen its power. It will appear as a silliness done by a legitimate couple. My brother's employer will be indulgent and no one in the yard will blame Hannah for doing risqué experiences with her own husband.”  
I pondered that. Indeed, it will be less staining as a show of an amorous wedded couple than as a disgusting display of a one-night stand... Clever Mycroft... Poor Mycroft and Hannah forced to stand each other's sight until... What ? The threat could be indefinite in time.   
“What are we going to do ?” I asked “Shouldn't we talk to Mycroft and Hannah ?” 

As I was saying this, we heard determined footsteps I recognized as Mycroft's. Speak of the devil...  
“This is considerate of you, John, but I can assure you that Hannah and I are perfectly fine.” He was indeed as neat and arrogant as I used to see him.   
“Brother...”   
Sherlock's murmur was very low. The first time I heard him speak to Mycroft in a soft manner. Maybe this horrid tape was the chink in the armor for my robotic, supposedly insensitive friend.   
Did I notice a moistness in Mycroft's eyes at the sight of Sherlock ?   
Nah, probably my imagination... For the politician made a circle with his umbrella, as if casually casting a hard subject aside.   
“Long story short, I have been careless. Hannah and I were snatched away, I don't know where for they very conveniently drugged us. I had to perform this despicable act to save her life and mine. The men were masked and someone bearing an uncanny resemblance to Jim Moriarty forced us at gunpoint.” He put the umbrella down. “My carelessness, my mistakes, I am responsible. Period. I have been foolish and stupid and Hannah paid a heavy price for it...”  
I think that was the most terrible and humiliating confession that man ever made, particularly to his brother and a man he had tried to bribe for information years ago. He stopped, as if at loss for words.   
“It is as you think, Sherlock. This marriage is to save what can be saved. Not for me. I assure you, John.” He turned to me. “ I am trying to make amends to a terribly wronged, innocent woman that had suffered enough. I am trying to protect her. By being Mrs. Mycroft Holmes, in the conservative way so dear to my superiors, her wishes, her tiniest whims will be fulfilled beyond her imagination...”  
“With a loveless union ?”   
I shouldn't have said that but it had escaped my lips even before I could even stop it. Mycroft briefly looked at me as if I had slapped him. Which I did in a way...  
But he went to his old countenance rather quickly. “As for the person who might be Moriarty or impersonating him at the very least, I know he has contacted you, Brother. So I assumed we will have the conclusion of this disastrous story very soon.”   
He made a small salute and left the room without any more discussion. I saw Sherlock's adam's apple making an up and down as if he was holding back tears. Which was impossible, knowing him.   
“I am sure Mommy is enchanted by all of this. Congratulations, Brother...” Sherlock said out loud apparently to anyone who would listen. And if this phrase might have sounded like his usual sarcastic tone, it was said with definite sadness.   
“She sure is.” Mycroft answered back, already going down the stairs. “She send us her own wedding jewelry. Thank you, Brother, for your blessing. And yes, you are to be best man again.”  
So as Mycroft left and as Sherlock resumed his sinister moping on the couch, I brutally remembered what Sherlock had said that had been bothering me all the while. 

Did he just say that they “pretended” that Hannah's lost child was Mycroft's ?


	29. CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Despite all of Mycroft's predictions, Moriarty, or whoever was passing himself or herself as such, never made another move the following weeks.   
The wedding was coming and everyone was participating. It was a sad reminiscence of my own and all the hassle it had taken us to do it. Yet, mine had been heavy to organize but fun. Even if Mary was lying to me at that time, it was totally sincere on both parts.   
Mycroft and Hannah's was plagued by a sad ambiance because no one knew what to think of it.   
No one knew what was going on in Mycroft and Hannah's head. 

Mr. and Mrs. Holmes came to visit their sons and the bride-to-be and were particularly enthusiastic. Yet I couldn't say if they were serious or playing along. Those two always baffled me. They appeared ordinary on the outside but I gradually guessed they were good at hiding things, especially Mrs. Holmes… What the hell, they had given birth to two masters in the arts of lying and manipulating thoughtlessly. It couldn't be a coincidence.   
Yet, I surprised a conversation between her and her sons in Sherlock's office/living room. I was about to climb the stairs and make myself known when I heard Mycroft's angry voice and his mother's own which had a touch of reproach.   
I thought about turning back when I heard Sherlock apparently being an ass as usual. I couldn't understand his words but they must have been the trigger for then a very infuriating Mycroft yelled after him and their mother in a particularly clear indignation : 

“I don't know what is more insulting ! That you two think so little of me that I might treat my wife badly or that you seem adamant that I am unable to make her happy in any way ! Did it even occur to both of you that I might be able to at least CARE for her ?” 

I heard a worried reply from Mrs. Holmes but I decided not to pry any further. I left without telling Mrs. Hudson goodbye.   
Yet something reassured me in all this hassle. At that time, I was almost sure that this wedding was not only about catching the one that had done so much wrong. Even if they had lied about the baby, about their relationship...  
There actually was something between Mycroft and Hannah. 

****

The wedding had been a grand affair. Much grander than my own. I say it without any bitterness for mine had been more about friends and family. Mycroft's wedding looked almost like a diplomatic business. I had been shocked to see some highly political figures paying their respects to the bride and groom after the ceremony. It was not exactly royal but it was solemn and confusing.   
Hannah looked amazingly beautiful, although a little pale. Her lace dress had a pale blue silk belt. She was wearing a wraith-like diamond tiara that held her luscious hair, she held a forget-me-not bride bouquet (that I found a little dreary afterwards). She didn't have a veil but her dress had a long and pretty train that made her look elegant. Even her scar seemed unimportant considering the rest.   
She was not talking much but she looked serene, smiling and even laughing. She looked better than she had been for a long while. 

Mycroft was dashing and Sherlock was bored to death. I had to help him to pass the Best Man's speech trial again... It was worse than mine for his lack of enthusiasm. It was hard to make him understand that a list of his reproaches and recriminations against Mycroft was no convenient speech at all. Yet, as the Best Man was moping, I observed the Groom. In Mycroft's composed face, I am sure I have seen a glimmer of contentment...  
Maybe it wasn't a masquerade after all...

The ball had started but Mary and I had decided to remain for a dance or two than to go. We had the sitter only until pas midnight. By then, we had to be back before she left.   
“What do you think of it ?” I asked her as I was seeing the happy couple opening the ball in a rather delicate waltz. Mary smirked.   
“They'll be all right. You worry too much.”   
I hoped she was right. While she was following Mycroft's steps and dancing to the tune, Hannah raised her head to her new husband and both of them smiled to each other...  
I realized that I never saw them in any interaction together. Side by side, yes, but never connected. That smile convinced me that there were some sincerity between all of this...  
We left. I was feeling a little less repelled by all of this. 

The morning after the wedding, the web crashed and the world came to a stop.


	30. CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

It had started with me trying to get my daily mails and having a major “No connection found” in the center of my screen. After many fruitless attempts to re-establish it, Mary tried to fix it herself only to be responded by “No local or national connection found.”  
Then when we put on the TV on and saw all the screens getting crazy about the “BIG WEB CRASH.” It was pandemonium. Everything that depended on the wi-fi was stopped. That was, pretty namely, everything…

Panic started to spread. Even Sherlock didn't look very well without his precious connection to a quick way of loading data. Imagine this, we had been dependent on the world wide web for decades and we were deprived of this without any kind of warning. No facebook, no twitter, no nothing... People were getting hysterical because they couldn't have news from folks that lived two streets away.   
Not to mention news from hospitals, institutions, faraway countries in danger...

The world had ended. I don't know how to put it differently or more clearly. The system we have been fed of and depended upon had abandoned us. We were lost, utterly lost. 

And I couldn't help but bring the name James Moriarty in mind. All of us were...

****

We were all assembled at the yard in Lestrade's office. That is meaning me, Sherlock, of course, Lestrade with Molly, Anderson and Donovan. And in the back, the newlyweds from the shortest honeymoon I ever seen. Not even 24 hours. Mycroft looked indifferent and Hannah was stern, her mouth clenched... They were curiously silent. I suspected, as we did all that they were somehow connected to this mess.  
Unfortunately we couldn't say how much without compromising them greatly. 

Sherlock was pacing to and fro in a dreadful silence while Lestrade was yelling on the phone. Molly was trying to calm him down. Donovan and Anderson were into their own business of phoning and inquiring without much luck. It was useless. What could we do ? The only solution would have been to understand how it happened. Big question with a big answer. 

I left Lestrade's side to join Sherlock. He was our only hope, or maybe, mine at least. Our only rock in the storm to put it in a romantic way... But he remained motionless and mute.   
“Sherlock...” I murmured. “What now ? Seriously ? What are we going to do ?”  
“It's a trap.”  
He had his hand under his chin, as usual, but his eyes were glittering furiously.   
“A trap ?”  
Sherlock grimaced as he usually did when he couldn't make his point clear.   
“Call it a trap, call it blackmail... It is all linked. Whoever he is, Fake-Moriarty wants something from the two lovebirds over here...”  
He cast a look at his brother and his wife.   
“All this catastrophe for Mycroft ?!” I found it impossible to believe... It was too much even for Moriarty. Our world was crashing down and it was only to harass two other human beings ? “You are being a drama queen, again !”   
“I wish I was...” He grimly replied. “But it is linked John. Whoever he is, he knew about Hannah's dead baby, he knew that Moriarty was its real father. He has a grudge towards me and Mycroft. He used her to get to him. Quite clever. Remarkably evil. How could he have known we would meet her ? It was either me or Mycroft and it had been Mycroft she fell in love with and him with her. 'Balance of probability' as Brother Dear would say. But even there...”  
He was walking through the room and talking to himself and I felt too stupid to even tell him to stop making all this nonsense.   
“First he tried the abduction and rape and it had backfired on him. It only precipitated their mutual feelings and hurried them towards the wedding. Oh, lord, how he must be mad at them. None of his perverse schemes worked actually... They are still up and fighting...”  
“Hang on !” I managed to find my voice back. “You think Hannah and Mycroft are really in love ? That the wedding was for real ?! Not only to save their reputation just in case the tape went public ?”  
Sherlock looked at me with his usual contempt.   
“Of course they are in love, John. Almost since the beginning ! Are you blind ? My brother had made a poor job of hiding it ! And Hannah is an emotional book ready to be read anytime !”   
Yeah, and Sherlock Holmes's the lousiest cupid ever.   
“And what now ? Fake-Moriarty is in control of the world now, if he's behind it. What in hell could he want with those two ? !”  
“And me.”  
“Huh ?”  
“Those two, and me. And probably you. Maybe Irene, who knows. But most probably us three, Hannah, Mycroft and me. Hannah lost his brother's baby and Mycroft and I provoked his death.”  
I had a blank for some seconds.   
“His BROTHER ?!”   
Sherlock hushed me for everyone in the room was staring at me right now.   
“Yes, John. There wasn't only one Moriarty... There was the one who died before my fall and another who...”  
He stopped hearing Lestrade's scream.   
“Hannah ? Hannah ! Sherlock ! Hannah and her bloody husband are gone !”


	31. CHAPTER THIRTY

Mycroft could have slapped himself for being so stupid. AGAIN.   
He was holding Hannah, his wife (he had to get used to that...), close. She was shivering in the cold evening breeze. She never shivered, except at intimate moment. But the situation deserved at least a shiver.   
They were on the roof of the yard. They didn't go any further. They were surrounded by mercenaries. Mycroft knew some of them. Top ten world assassins, most of them. Just like the current Mrs. Watson. Besides they probably knew her and held a grudge or two against her... Mycroft sneered at the irony. Jim Moriarty had henchmen too but to confront Sherlock, at least Mycroft had to concede this, the real Moriarty did it on his own, without any backups.   
This one was a fake. And a bad one. Mycroft knew it almost from the beginning. 

The unknown man had to bring a whole armada with him, even well camouflaged as false yarders. This was the one thing good enough to swindle Mycroft Holmes.   
“Mycroft Holmes and Hannah Adler !” Said the voice that Mycroft couldn't help but be haunted by. “We meet again ! I'd rather have it in more auspicious circumstances but... Time is ticking out... Yeaaaah !” He started to sing the Cranberries song like the maniac he was. “Time is ticking out !”  
So like Jim Moriarty, but also so unlike him.   
He did his best to do his hair the same way, walk and talk the same way, act the same way. But, as his face indeed recalled Jim's, his features were less sharp, more plain... Mycroft knew he was wearing contact lentils to hide the fact that his eyes were blue gray and not dark brown like the real Moriarty.   
Someone ordinary could have been fooled but not Mycroft Holmes. Hannah, being traumatized, had had reasons for imagining things at first...  
Anyway, he had Mycroft and Hannah under his thumb again. And Mycroft could have slapped himself for that...

“Mickey, Mickey, Mickey... I am disappointed in you ! I had thought that you and Miss Adler would understand after our little party...”  
And to top it all, his voice was unbearable... High pitched and false. At the moment when Mycroft thought that, henchmen or not, he was going to punch that wretch down the ground if he ever called him Mickey again, Hannah stepped forward, looking no longer afraid.   
“It's Hannah RONDER to you, asshole !” She gnarled. “And more, it's Hannah Ronder-HOLMES !”  
Mycroft, even in their difficult situation, managed to smile rather proudly.   
Unknown Man growled in a rather poor imitation of his role model.   
“SHUT UP BITCH !!! YOU'LL TALK WHEN I'LL TELL YOU TO !!”  
He was screaming too high and the foam at the corner of his mouth made him vulgar and common.   
There was a silence but Hannah threw him the most despising look Mycroft ever saw on her. He silently vowed that she would make it, even if it needed his life to do so.   
“As I said...” The Unknown Man resumed his well-rehearsed speech that lacked spontaneity. “I hoped that after our little encounter, you would do as I say but instead... You eloped and did that sorry masquerade of a wedding...” He theatrically waved his arms. “Clever of you. Now I have lost a card but not my full deck and since you refuse to obey...” He sat on a chair one of his lackey seemed to have produced from thin hair. “We'll just have to wait for the little brother and the big sister, now, shall we ?”  
He sat as if he had all the time in the world. Mycroft silently hoped that neither John, nor Greg or Irene or even worse, Sherlock would come... Because that was what the crazy creature wanted. Kill them all and avenge the real Moriarty's death.   
All this brilliant control over the world just to destroy a handful of people. He was even more deranged than Moriarty was...

****  
On the roof of Scotland Yard ? Please...   
And yet, it was. They were a whole team up here. It reminded me of the swimming pool thing where I could have been blast into smithereens.   
But now, all the dudes were up, showing themselves armed. I have seen some of them in the yard. Talk about being stupid. Even Sherlock had not remarked it. Yet, he was the one to guess they weren't far.   
There was Sherlock, me, Anderson and Donovan, and Greg. We were armed but outnumbered. At the center of a group with bad rifles, Mycroft and Hannah, rather calm. On their side, gesticulating like a crazy puppet, someone I thought first was Moriarty.   
But it couldn't be him... There were details that didn't fit... It was like a very good cosplay of Moriarty made by someone that looked a lot like him.   
But it was obvious in the full light that it wasn't him.  
I confess I thought all of this was a bad joke made by Mycroft or Sherlock or even Irene... They were capable of it. That was why I laughed in a very silly way.   
“Sherlock ! Who's that clown ?”  
The minute I have said that aloud, the crazy puppet turned to me and I swear his eyes seemed red in seconds.   
“WHO ARE YOU CALLING A CLOWN ?!” The voice was so high I thought he was going to break the glass downstairs. “I am JIM MORIARTY, you PATHETIC CRIPPLE !!”  
“He is not a cripple.” Sherlock said calmly. “Not anymore. And you are not Moriarty. Only a highly disturbed psychopath who thinks he is Moriarty.”  
The unidentified person turned to Sherlock and looked at him as if he was a kid looking at his birthday cake, with a disgustingly lusty smile...   
“Oh yes I am, darling...” He purred. “And this time, you are really going to fall...”


	32. CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

I have called him a clown at first, not realizing how dangerous he was yet.   
No, a dangerous clown. A HIGHLY LETHAL clown.  
But, sorry, still a clown. A very bad one.   
Whoever he was, he bore a certain resemblance to the actual Moriarty. But a resemblance you find in brothers or cousins. It was obvious he was using it. But I wondered how, if those henchmen used to be Moriarty's, how could they be so blind to obey someone that was obviously a deranged copycat ? For Moriarty was deranged, yet coherent, cold-blooded and brilliant. That one was simply crazy-deranged.   
Somehow, I was disappointed. I expected better... Some super resuscitated villain with wings maybe...  
I think that this disappointment was the reason why I couldn't shut my own big mouth. If I was going to have a second rate impersonator, no need to be extra cautious around him. Living with Sherlock had brought me so much colorful and highly insane characters to fight, this one didn't even deserved my attention.   
Yes, I, too, can be a pompous arse. This is not only Sherlock's prerogatives and believe me when I say I deeply regret what I said at that moment. For it considerably made everything more complicated... And he had called me a cripple. That was not okay in my book, so it can be an explanation, if not an excuse for my attitude.

“Seriously, Sherlock,” I asked, dangerously and deliberately ignoring the madman on purpose. “Who's the clown, here ? Is THAT what we have been waiting for ?”   
I emphasized on the “that.” Of course, I wanted to appear as indifferent and despising as possible. “Cripple,” again. Not to mention I sympathized with Hannah and Mycroft's ordeal and didn't want to give this creature more importance than it deserved.   
“John...” Sherlock tried to warn me but I was too far gone. Months of angst, the baby, my wife, my abused friends (yes, I guess Mycroft was a friend no matter how much I wanted to punch him sometimes for being such a cold-blooded ass...) had made me like a cat on a tin roof and I wanted to lash out onto someone. I wasn't afraid of this caricature of Moriarty so I decided to do my worst.   
“I can't believe this ! We've been on the deck 24/7 for YOU ? You're not Moriarty, even a simpleton could see that ! Who the hell are YOU ?”  
“JOHN !” Sherlock cut before the grimacing puppet in front of us could say anything. “He is not Jim Moriarty but he is still a Moriarty.”  
I turned to Sherlock, so did Greg, Anderson and Donovan. Sherlock took a deep breath.   
“This is Jonathan Moriarty. James Moriarty's elder brother.”

Hearing its true name, the puppet became all sloppy and changed in seconds. As if he had turned from psycho, bloody maniac into a little boy astonished to see his parents saw through his tricks.   
“Jonathan Moriarty was no Jim. He was as brilliant of course but he suffered from a form of paranoid schizophrenia that made him more deranged, much less in control. I found a psychiatric file that showed he used to slaughter the neighborhood pets in Prague where the family lived and forced a traumatized little Jim to watch...”  
While I was picturing the dreadful scene, “Jim” Moriarty made a horribly sweet smile, as if what Sherlock was saying was a good memory.   
“That was not what happened. I believe Jim guessed rather quickly that his brother was totally lost. Yet, Jonathan had the potential to be a perfect prompt and to do the dirty work for his brother. So he 'trained' him at an early age to make him the perfect cold-blooded killer and madman.”  
The sweet smile turned into a gnarl.   
“You dirty...” He growled.  
“But Jonathan lived all his existence in the shadow of Moriarty. I suspect that Jim Moriarty made him endure plastic surgery to be the perfect replica. But, as you can see, it is not perfect. You might change the skin around the mouth, the nose, the eyes, but not the overall facial bone structure. Beside, he was taller and bigger and no amount of diet could ever change that.”  
“YOU !” The weirdo shouted. His henchmen starting to grow nervous. Sherlock was not moved, not one bit.   
“I supposed that he both loved and hated his diabolical younger brother. He envied his criminal mind but, lacking in self-control, organization and means, he was incapable to even reach his level. So he had to wait and see if there was a possibility to ever bring the king down... Until he met the queen...”  
Sherlock gave a weird look to Hanna that blanched immediately. Mycroft gave Sherlock a warning look. Greg and his officers stared at her, puzzled as I was.   
“I do not know Moriarty's connection with my sister-in-law but I do know that he had an unwanted attraction to her. I suspect him of having blackmailed her and kept her under his thumb for some reason that is of secondary importance. The fact is that Jonathan met her on this occasion and could not forget her.”  
I held my breath.   
“Of course, he also was obsessed with me and my brother. But I suspect it as a way of becoming his brother after his death. Once Moriarty was gone, he was free to be the one and only Moriarty. That was why he hacked the whole network in England, trying to terrorize us, show us who's boss. But it wasn't enough. He wanted all and he wanted it fast.”  
The maniac was breathing heavily. “You dick... Just shut up or I'll...”  
“Shut up yourself and take your medicine like a good little boy.” Sherlock said, unfazed, as if scolding a very stupid child. “You have failed because you mixed sentiments with business. The game requires total commitment and no wishy-wahsy half-assed will. You failed like the pathetic scum you are because you fell in love with my sister-in-law, if such an insane obsession can be called like that, and you couldn't bear it because she was falling in love with Mycroft Holmes, the 'Ice-Man' your brother scorned.”  
The little boy turned back into the monster, by and by...  
“So you tricked them, the most horrible, possible way ever and...”   
Sherlock stopped. His mouth turned into a wild smile and he literally burst out laughing. A true joyous laugh. We were astonished to say the least.   
“You know, this is why I don't want to get emotionally involved !” He managed to blurt between two laughs. “Caring makes you do mistakes again and again ! And what did you do ? You thought you were destroying them but...” He laughed again. “ You forced them to stick together ! You gave them no choice but to acknowledge their feelings ! You practically MARRIED them !!”  
Sherlock was laughing so much he had tears in his eyes.   
“So much for the criminal master mind ! The resuscitated Moriarty ! A lousy ordinary cupid !”  
We were so amazed looking at our very own grim sleuth, laughing silly and choking, bending on his knees to catch his breath we didn't notice the crazy man drawing his gun at him.


	33. CHAPTER 32

All arrived at once. The bloody-eyed monster aimed at Sherlock, presumably to shoot him, Mycroft screamed his wife's name and I saw a brown bolt rushing full speed at the creature. I saw the henchmen going frantic in seconds, Greg and his people grabbing their weapons...   
And a firing ensued.   
I saw several bodies fall, luckily none of our own. I heard a blood-curdling yell that I couldn't exactly which throat it came from. Then more shooting and the bloody puppet was in front of me.   
I could have swore he actually he had a piece of his head already blown to smithereens. He had a horrible maniac smile, as if his face had been slashed. You could see the bloodied pink of his jaw. A shark or the Joker from Batman. He was yelling at the top of his lungs and firing in some direction. In seconds I recognized that the form he was firing at was a bundle of frantic arms and legs in which I saw Sherlock's curly head, Hannah's hands and Mycroft's arm apparently trying to shield them.   
Not a gesture I would have thought him capable of.   
The creature screamed an ungodly sound. He obviously wanted to kill one of them or the three in a lot (more probably the second option). As a doctor, I couldn't make out for the life of me how could he still move with a piece of his brain destroyed (by whom ?). Yet he was coming closer, in his staccato crazy walk.   
So, I shot. Or rather, I think I shot but several persons also did from both sides at the same time.   
Anyway, the monster's head finally transformed into a crimson mess all around the place. No matter how and who did it. 

When the gunpowder settled down, I could see it was bad. There were bodies but none of our own, thanks god. But there were casualties. Donovan had a bullet in her arm. She was in pain. Anderson had to tend to her, though he had a bad cut on his brow that covered half his face in red. Greg had but a scratch but it had badly hit his shoulder so now he looked like a prompt from Die Hard. Molly would have to leave her beloved morgue tonight.   
And the others ? As I was looking for Sherlock, Mycroft and Hannah, among yarders hurt or under shock, paramedics and backups flooding around the place, helping or holding at gunpoint the remaining henchmen that were still in one piece, I saw them. I saw her.   
Far away, it seemed I heard a last high pitched scream that I realized was Irene Adler, running to us, her usually impeccable hairdo in disarray, her mouth red and open and her mascara running. I don't know how she managed to go to a crime scene and pass through all this security. Maybe she had “misbehaved,” as she usually says, with one of our team... Whatever.   
I quickly realized the reason of her distress.   
Between a pale Sherlock (who had lost his blue scarf in the panic and had badly torn his coat) and a catatonic Mycroft covered with dust and dirt (apparently he had thrown himself onto the ground), there was Hannah, covered in blood. Both her good and bad eyes closed, the scars on her face livid. She was not moving nor breathing.   
She had been hit in the belly. 

****  
Jonathan Moriarty had been killed during the attack so did ten of his men. Some of the survivors managed to kill themselves during custody with the old fake-tooth-full-of-poison trick. The ones who couldn't were younger, inexperienced small fries. Kids who wanted a bit of thug glory and were almost crying for their moms during their police interviews. They couldn't tell us more that we already knew. They had been hired without being told anything, proof that they had no brains whatsoever. Pros do some research before accepting a deal. And my wife knew some of the dead ones but none of the survivors. It said everything to me...   
The Moriarty final problem was solved. And I deeply prayed for it to be solved for good...

I went back to my parental and conjugal duties but with a heavy mind. Sherlock and Irene had locked themselves up in 221b and Mycroft had made the hospital where Hannah was staying his new headquarters.   
Being Mycroft allows you to requisition whatever you like, even a hospital suite...  
Hannah had been shot but the bullet had been quickly removed without too much damage. Yet, it had been almost the same location as Sherlock and she remained in a coma for a little while. When she woke up, she was weak. She wasn't talking much.   
She had much on her plate. Her former torturer was well and truly gone, the new one was also dead as a doorknob. She had been through hell for the second time in her life and had lived to tell the story.   
The question was (and believe me, it was buzzing round and round in our heads and those of our friends) what would the rest of her story and Mycroft's ? 

I knew, through Mrs. Hudson, that Irene and Sherlock had had a fight (“lovers' quarrel” she called it...) about the rest of Mycroft and Hannah's mariage. They disagreed about whether it would be better for them both to divorce amicably or to remain together.  
Sherlock thought Mycroft incapable of feeling anything for anyone and that Hannah had to be careful not to be thrown out of his mansion without a proper compensation. Hearing that from Sherlock's mouth revolted me but there was still a sad hint of truth behind it... Irene, on the other side, claimed that her sister was beautiful and clever enough to get “the biggest fish in the pond” and keep it. She was probably right but, once again, she only saw relationships as a means or a thrill. I couldn't take her words seriously...  
I wanted to tell them that it was none of their damn business and that, before anyone could decide anything on their behalf, Hannah and Mycroft had to be back on their feet and sort out things on their own.   
And not to let their bothersome siblings have any say in it...   
So I hoped... Wrongly.


	34. CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Message to Dr. Harolds, from Mycroft :  
Dr.,   
I need a thorough report on the mental and physical state of Mrs. Holmes. My wife needs proper care once she will be settled back at home. I am afraid, though her wounds seem doing well, that she has endured a severe trauma as she cannot be able to speak for now. You can measure how much her condition worries me and you know that I am not a patient man.   
With regards, Mycroft Holmes. 

 

Message to Hannah from Mycroft, left on her bedside :  
My dear,   
I came this morning and stayed a while but, as you were sleeping, I didn't want to disturb you. You need rest. I will come back very soon.   
Yours, M.H.

 

Message to Mycroft Holmes from Dr. Harolds :   
Dear Sir,   
Given the circumstances, I am happy to tell you that Mrs. Holmes' physical state is incredibly improving. I will not bother you with anatomical details but her operation is a success and she is to be back on her feet very soon.   
However, I have noticed her total refusal to communicate with anyone, not even her own sister. I can assure you there is no physical impairment that would prevent her from speaking freely. I suggest that our therapist, Ms. Johnson, should be consulted on this particular matter. I will report to you immediately after she has seen Mrs. Holmes.   
With respect, Dr; Harolds. 

 

Text to Anthea from Mycroft :  
Full report on a Mrs Susanna Johnson, therapist at St Bart's hospital. ASAP. 

 

Letter to Hannah from Irene :  
Nana,   
Since I am tired of you pretending to be asleep or not seeing me or being cuckoo or I don't know what, I am writing. How long do you intend to remain in that funny little brain of yours ? Playing Sherlock's mind palace again ? This is exhausting. Your husband is worried. I am very worried.   
Please, piglet, do an effort for us !  
Your sister, Niri. 

 

Note scribbled and torn from a notepad to Irene from Hannah :  
LEAVE ME ALONE

 

Texts send to Sherlock and Mycroft from Irene :  
She doesn't want to see me now. There. Happy, both of you ?

 

Letter to Hannah from Irene :  
Nana, piglet, sister,   
I don't know what is exactly going on but don't push me away again ! It simply kills me ! We only got each other, remember ? Till death do us part ?   
And by the way, there is someone else to whom, in truth or not, you have also said “till death do us part.” You have won the biggest slice of the best cake, sister. You have put your leash on the most powerful man in the UK and do I need to remember you he is not renown for being comprehensive and patient ? He'll soon tire out if you are not careful and he'll throw you out without even a hefty compensation ! I know you hate it when I speak of relationships like that but face the truth, darling. Love is for fools. Someone taught me as much if not life in itself.   
Please listen to me and face reality for once ! I want you safe and provided for and that man is the key to your well-being and my peace of mind. Please, please, chase me away if you can't stand me anymore but not him ! For your sake !   
I love you so much, please take care of yourself for me, piglet,   
Your Niri

 

Text sent to Irene from Mycroft :  
What on earth is going on with my wife ? 

 

Email sent to Irene from Sherlock :  
If you are incapable of seeing what is right under your nose, it means that your wits are rusty from your exile, an exile you have brought on yourself and a return your sister paid a costly price for. You know what I am talking about. Don't make a fool of yourself.   
You are not Hannah and she is not you. I believe you when you said she is strong enough to survive anything and I know perfectly well what she has been through. Believe me. I might be a sociopath but life with the Watson and my new goddaughter might have opened my mind a bit.   
Yes, my sister-in-law went through hell. Yes, she is badly shaken and deserves some happiness. Yes, she has unfortunately married the biggest prick on earth who happens to be my brother. No, it was not a good idea. In fact, I cannot imagine worse fate than waking up every day to see this depressing, snobbish face on your pillow. Not to mention the rest... The very thought of it makes me sick.   
Irene, money and position are not everything. YOU should know. You had both, look where it got you ?   
As for Hannah, contrary to all of you morons, I believe she is wise enough to make her own mind about her present state. Do not worry, for all his defects, my brother is a decent man. He will not leave her without proper care, monetary or otherwise. It would be too harsh for his reputation.   
So, leave it be. You'll only make it worse.   
S. 

 

Text sent to Sherlock from Irene :  
Do not talk to me. Ever. 

 

Text sent to Mycroft from Irene :  
PLEASE. Go see my sister, I am terribly worried ! 

 

Text sent to Irene from Mycroft :   
I AM seeing her ! Despite my numerous responsibilities, I go see her every day ! But when she is not faking sleep, she is not talking ! She is not even looking at me ! I don't understand her anymore, what am I supposed to do ?

 

Text sent to Mycroft from Irene :   
Go see her and talk to her anyway. I will help you. 

 

Notes written to Hannah from Mycroft on her notepad :  
What have I done wrong ?   
Do you judge me responsible for all of this ?   
Do you not trust me anymore ?   
Please, tell me.  
Please.   
Please.   
Do you wish us to separate ? 

 

Notes written to Mycroft from Hannah on her notepad :  
No  
No  
NO NO NO

 

Notes written to Hannah from Sherlock on her notepad :  
Stop whining for your sorry self.   
You are being ridiculous. You and my brother.   
Do you intend to get on with your life at some point ? 

 

Notes written to Sherlock from Hannah on her notepad :  
GO FUCK YOURSELF 

 

Text to Mycroft sent by Anthea :   
Mrs. Holmes is considerably better. She has just thrown a vase at your brother's face. Three stitches. 

 

Note written to Hannah from Mycroft on her notepad :   
Thank you, darling. 

 

Note written to Mycroft from Hannah on her notepad :  
You're welcome. 

 

Text to Sherlock from John :  
Are you all out of your damn mind ?!


	35. CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Letter to Hannah from Mycroft, left on her bedside. :  
Dearest,  
I might be a man of many words and definite control in my profession but, as you know, I lack proper expression in my privacy. It seems that I am cursed for the closest I am to a particular person, the less I manage to properly communicate with them. The more I feel, the less I convey my feelings. You just have to see how badly I deal with my brother, as you know...  
So the person in the highest position must be faced with, at best, my awkward coldness, at worst, my silence. 

Since we have closed this horrible chapter of our lives, it seems that we have drifted apart. Our wordless intimacy had let me believe we had no need for tedious chitchat. I honestly thought I had no need to express myself any further, that you already knew... It appears not being so. It is hard actually to guess your thoughts. An exercise that is rather easy to me but complicated concerning you. Which is probably one of the reasons why I had set my mind on you. How could I live with someone whose behavior would be boringly predictable ?  
But it is not what I meant to say. Again, awkward coldness...  
If you are wondering why I have chosen to marry you and am so set on trying to save this marriage, let me try to answer as thoroughly and simply as possible.  
At first, I admit, I came closer to you to keep you under my watch, to be sure you wouldn't be a threat to my brother or any of my... other responsibilities. Yes, I was first only interested in you for the potential danger you represented. In my mouth, it is a compliment for only two people have arisen such an interest in me. One is your sister, the other... is not someone you wish to talk about. 

Before you throw away this letter and decide to get a divorce, please, read it till the end. Remember that it is not an easy thing to write for me. Bear with me for I shall tell you the worst before I make it less harsh. 

By and by, I admit I felt a more personal interest. And the most dreadful things occurred. I can assure you, had I only foreseen or even had the slightest hint at all we would bu going through, I would have never let them happened. I would have taken care of you and the child. Even if John assured me it probably would have happened anyway, I have to admit I deeply regret its loss.  
And then, the other unhappiness... I am taking all the responsibility here. There is no need to say more.  
But, this I can now admit. Was I forced to marry you in order to protect myself, or my brother or you ? No. Not entirely. It was one of the reasons but it certainly wasn't the main one, the more significant one...  
Again, I lack proper expression and this is yet my most important confession. I cannot find a way to say it more directly. 

I do not wish for divorce. I do not want it. 

It is not a problem of respectability or image. You of all people should know I have little care about what people think of me. You also know I can offer you whatever you may desire, even impossible things. I can even give you another child, even if the very thought of reproducing makes me highly uncomfortable. I'll never prevent you from doing anything you wish to do. I endeavor myself into making you the happiest woman ever. God knows you greatly deserve it. 

Anything. Anything you want. It is already yours. 

Yours truly,  
Mycroft Holmes. 

 

Letter to Mycroft, from Hannah, left on her bedside :

I love you too. 

 

Text to Anthea from Mycroft : 

Istambul. ASAP. Tell no one. 

 

Text to Sherlock from Irene :

WHERE THE HELL IS MY SISTER ?!?

 

Text to Irene from Sherlock :

AND WHERE THE HELL IS MY BROTHER ?!?

 

Text to Irene and Sherlock from John :

I told you so. Both of you.


	36. EPILOGUE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ladies and gentlemen, the end ! Thanks for your support !

And now, the end of this story... If this is an end at all...

Well, probably, it is the end of a certain lifestyle. For all of us. I am a husband and a father, now. But instead of only caring for my one little girl, I have to deal with two big kids who are now constantly fighting, throwing responsibility at each other' face and arguing endlessly about who started what. Thank god for my wife who calms them down from time to time.

Yet, she had to use her gun to obtain order in the courtroom, once...

Sherlock, currently deprived of the overbearing and overprotective shadow of his big brother, is now acting like a crazy puppet. Not because he is bored, unfortunately, but because he is mad about Mycroft leaving him without a word, without a mere forewarning and not to have the slightest idea about his whereabouts. He blames Irene for pushing her sister too far and making her want to run away. Consequently pushing Mycroft into disappearing. 

Yep, he can be amazingly perceptive about others and totally blind about his own defects. No change on this side of the story...

On her side of the story, Irene blames Sherlock for being a jerk (wow, who would have guessed ?) and chasing her sister away, pushing Mycroft to follow her, etc. etc... She is the one who had to rethink her whole life, she is maybe the one who miss her sibling the most. She is currently living under a false identity and making a very lucrative job in very private circles. She didn't say what her job consisted in and who she was working for, but I think it is about the same kind as Mycroft and Anthea... She has not changed her lifestyle that much and she seems well enough. But I am not sure she is as happy and carefree as she used to be when being a high-class dominatrix. Furthermore, I know she is constantly thinking of Hannah and has a hard time with Sherlock.  
They are both incapable of living together and cannot really make a clean break. A weird, tumultuous on-and-off relationship. 

On the other hand, knowing them both, it is impossible to imagine them settling down like your average Joe. They would kill each other out of boredom...

And Hannah and Mycroft ? Well, that's the case that is not yet solved...  
They are gone, together, and Sherlock has absolutely no idea where nor how... Anthea has also disappeared but I think that she knows perfectly well that she is the first person Sherlock would harass for information. Being Mycroft's PA, it is highly probable that she has followed Mr. and Mrs. Holmes in their impromptu honeymoon.  
Mycroft's scary caretaker is totally mute and Sherlock could not extract anything from her wall-like attitude. She is a frightening woman and I don't like the way she fondles her rosary each time Sherlock comes to her... 

Anyway, whether Irene or Sherlock are trying to pull the pieces of the puzzle together, none of them seems to improve on the Hollow Honeymoon case... Yes, it's a terrible title, I'll have to find something else... Nonetheless, it makes their mood go sour on themselves and on each other.

Actually, only Mary and I have a faint idea about where they are. And it is a constant strain to hide it from the two domestic sleuths. 

From time to time, we receive a mysterious postcard coming out of nowhere from various places. Istambul, Cairo, Tunis, Madrid, Los Angeles, New York, Tokyo... No return adress, nothing written not even a name. The last one came from Venice. I hope it means they will be soon back. I miss them.  
Yet I know them enough now to be sure they won't come back until they are ready. I do not think they are in danger. I think Mycroft would have told Irene and Sherlock if it was so.  
I think they are just fed up with everything and took a little around-the-world vacation.  
And probably they are glad that their siblings are worrying a bit about them for once.

I can picture them now. In their hotel room, near Piazza San Marco. Mycroft must be moody from being awaken so early by the noisy pigeons that invade the famous place. I am sure Hannah is glad because it allows them to see the sun rise on the lagoon and turn the Palazzo and the cathedral into gold. I am sure that at that precise moment, they are both in bed, naked and content. Mycroft, grumpy each time he heard a noisy italian singing stupid love song in the street, Hannah smiling at her husband's mood. Her head on his chest, his hand caressing her hair...

Both of them, I hope, happy for a long time. Maybe not forever but, at least, a very, very long time...  
Who knows ? I am a hopeless romantic after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks a lot for reading. Comments always welcomed !


End file.
